
Class PB 3363 
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HOME AND HAUNTS 



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%omt and Haunts 



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SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS. 



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MEMOIR OF WILLIAM COWPER 17 



AN AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, . ... 55 

ACCOUNT OF THE TREATMENT OF HIS HARES, .... 77 



DESCRIPTION OF WESTON PARK, 



CHARACTER AND LAST ILLNESS OF REY. JOHN COWPER, . . 141 



.OL!LlS?U&irO©M 



BIRTHPLACE OF COWPER. 
PORTRAIT OF COWPER, 
^COWPER'S SUMMER HOUSE, 

THE HARES, 
/THE PEASANT'S NEST, . 
r THE RUSTIC BRIDGE, 

"VIEW FROM THE ALCOVE, 
/ THE ALCOVE FROM THE AVENUE. 
y THE WILDERNESS FROM THE GROVE, 
^THE TEMPLE IN THE WILDERNESS, 
^WESTON LODGE, . 

lAvESTON HOUSE, FROM THE GROVE, 
^ THE ELMS, . 

THE SHRUBBERY, . 
OLNEY CHURCH, 
VDLNEY BRIDGE, 



FRONTISPIECE. 
PAGE 16 

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126 
130 
134 
138 



MEMOIR 



WILLIAM COWPEK. 



Among the literary characters that, in the present age, 
have attained celebrity by the extent of their genius and 
excellence of their productions, must be ranked the poet 
Cowper ; who, uniting piety to talent, and devotion to 
principle, employed the graces of poesy to strengthen 
the bands of morality, and give energy to the precepts 
which direct the heart to religion and to virtue. The 
general tendency of his writings is, undoubtedly, to excite 
and give permanence to the feelings which promote re- 
flection, and incline the thoughts to another and a better 
state ; yet, though chiefly emanating from this principle, 
they exhibit a variety seldom the produce of a single 
mind ; and we cannot but admire the versatility of his 
powers, which, engaged in all the diversity of diction, 
was in all equally successful. 

2 



18 CO AY PER ILLUSTRATED. 

William Cowper was born on the 15th of November 
(old style), 1731, in the Rectory of Great Berkhamstead, 
Hertfordshire. His father, the Rector of the parish, was 
John Cowper, D.D., son of Spencer Cowper, Chief Jus- 
tice of the Common Pleas, and next brother to the first 
Earl Cowper, Lord Chancellor. His mother, the daughter 
of Roger Donne, Esq., of Norfolk, was of noble, and 
remotely of royal descent. It is not, however, for her 
genealogy, but for being the mother of a great poet, that 
this lady will be remembered. She died at the age of 
thirty-four, leaving of several children only two sons. " I 
can truly say," said Cowper, nearly fifty years after her 
death, " that not a week passes (perhaps I might with 
equal veracity say a day), in which I do not think of her ; 
such was the impression her tenderness made upon me, 
though the opportunity she had for showing it was so 
short." At the time of her death, Cowper was but six 
years old ; but young as he was, he felt his loss most 
poignantly, and has recorded his feelings on the occasion 
of her loss, in the most beautiful of his minor poems. 

Soon after his mother's death, Cowper was sent to a 
boarding-school, where he suffered much from the cruelty 
of one of the elder boys. " Such was his savage treat- 
ment of me," says he, "that I well remember being 
afraid to lift my eyes higher than his knees, and I knew 
him better by his shoe-buckles than by any other part of his 
dress." His infancy is said to have been "delicate in no 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 19 

common degree," and his constitution appears early to 
have discovered a morbid tendency to despondency. 
When Cowper was ten years old, he was sent to West- 
minster School, where he remained eight years. At 
Westminster he obtained an excellent classical education, 
and was much beloved by his companions, among whom 
were Lloyd, Colman, Churchill, and Warren Hastings ; 
but he complains much of his want of religious instruc- 
tion at this school. " At the age of eighteen," he says, 
" being tolerably well furnished with grammatical know- 
ledge, but as ignorant of all kinds of religion as the 
satchel at my back, I was taken from Westminster." 

He was now placed with an attorney, and had for his 
fellow-clerk Thurlow, the after Lord Chancellor. He, 
however, made but little progress in the study of the law. 
" I did actually live," he writes his cousin, Lady Hesketh, 
many years afterwards, "three years with a solicitor; 
that is to say, I slept three years in his house ; but I lived, 
that is to say, I spent my days, in Southampton Row, 
as you well remember. There was I, and the future 
Lord Chancellor, constantly employed from morning to 
night, in giggling and making giggle, instead of studying 
the law." 

In 1752, at the age of twenty-one, Cowper took cham- 
bers in the Temple ; and in a Memoir which he wrote 
some years afterwards, he thus describes the commence- 
ment of that malady which embittered so much of his 
future life. " Not long after my settlement in the Tern- 



20 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

pie, I was struck with such, a dejection of spirits, as none 
hut they who have felt the same, can have any conception 
of. Day and night I was upon the rack, lying down in 
horror and rising up in despair. ..... In this state of 

mind I continued near a twelvemonth ; when having ex- 
perienced the inefficacy of all human means, I, at length, 
"betook myself to God in prayer." Shortly after this, as 
he was walking in the country, "I felt," he continues, " the 
weight of all my misery taken off, and my heart "became 

light and joyful in a moment But Satan, and 

my own wicked heart, soon persuaded me that I was in- 
debted for my deliverance, to nothing hut a change of 
scene, and on this hellish principle I burnt my prayers, 
and away went all my thoughts of devotion." 

For ten years after being called to the bar, Cowper con- 
tinued to reside in the Temple, amusing himself with 
literature and society, and making little or no effort to 
pursue his profession. lie belonged to the " Nonsense 
Club," consisting of seven Westminster men, among 
whom were Lloyd, Colman, and Bonnell Thornton ; 
assisted the two latter in the " Connoisseur," and 
" though he wrote and published," says Hayley, "both 
verse and prose, it was as the concealed assistant of less 
diffident authors." 

Meantime he had fixed his affections on Theodora 
Jane, the daughter of his uncle, Ashley Cowper ; one of 
those ladies with whom he used to " giggle and make 



SKETCH OP HIS LIFE. 21 

giggle," in Southampton Eow. She is described as a 
lady of great personal and mental attractions; and their 
affection was mutual. But her father objected to their 
union, both on the score of means and consanguinity. 
When it was found that his decision was final, the lovers 
never met again. It does not appear that this disap- 
pointment had any influence in inducing the return of 
his malady. In respect to love, as well as friendship and 
fame, few poets, and perhaps few men, have possessed 
feelings more sane and healthy than Cowper. In after- 
life, he said to Lady Hesketh, a I still look back to the 
memory of your sister and regret her ; but how strange it 
is ; if we were to meet now, we should not know each 
other." It was different with Theodora. She lived un- 
married to extreme old age, and carefully preserved the 
poems which he had given her during their intercourse, 
to the end of her life. 

At the age of thirty-one, the little patrimony which 
had been left Cowper by his father, was well-nigh spent. 
At this time, his uncle, who had the place at his disposal, 
offered him the clerkship of the Journals of the House 
of Lords. Cowper gladly accepted the offer, as the 
business being transacted in private, would be especially 
suited to his disposition, which was shy and reserved to 
a remarkable degree. But some political opposition 
arising, it was found necessary that he should prepare 
himself for an examination at the bar of the House. And 



22 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

now began a course of mental suffering, such as, perhaps, 
has never been described, except in his own fearful 
"Memoir." " I knew," says he, "to demonstration, that 
on these terms, the clerkship of the Journals was no 
place for me, to whom a public exhibition of myself on 
any occasion, was mortal poison." As the time for his 
examination approached, his distress of mind increased. 
He even hoped, and expected, that his intellect would fail 
him, in time to excuse his appearance at the bar. "But 
the day of decision drew near," he continues, " and I was 
still in my senses. At last came the grand temptation ; — 
the point, to which Satan had all the time been driving 
me; the dark and hellish purpose of self-murder." In 
short, after several irresolute attempts at suicide, by 
poison and drowning, Cowper actually hanged himself 
to the door of his chamber ; and only escaped death by 
the breaking of his garter, by which he was suspended. 
All thoughts of the office were now, of course, given up. 
His insanity remained, but its form was somewhat 
modified. He was no longer disposed to suicide, but 
" conviction of sin, and especially of that just committed," 
and despair of God's mercy, were now never absent from 
his thoughts. In every book that he opened he found 
something which struck him to the heart. He almost 
believed that the " voice of his conscience was loud 
enough for any one to hear ;" and he thought that "the 
people in the street stared and laughed" at him. When 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 23 

he attempted to repeat tlie creed, which he did, in experi- 
ment of his faith, he felt a sensation in his brain, "like 
a tremulous vibration of all its fibres, " and thus lost the 
words ; and he therefore concluded, in unspeakable agony, 
that he had committed the unpardonable sin. At length, 
he became a raving madman, and his friends now placed 
him at St. Albans, under the care of Dr. Cotton, a skil- 
ful and humane physician. Sometime previous to his 
removal to St. Albans, Cowper wrote the following 
stanzas descriptive of his state of mind : — 

Hatred and vengeance — my eternal portion 
Scarce can endure delay of execution — 
Wait with impatient readiness to seize my 

Soul in a moment. 

Damned below Judas; more abhorred than he was 
Who for a few pence sold his holy Master ! 
Twice betrayed Jesus me, the last delinquent, 

Deems the profanest. 

Man disavows, and Deity disowns me. 
Hell might afford my miseries a shelter ; 
Therefore, Hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all 
Bolted against me. 

Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers; 
Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors, 
Ira called in anguish to receive a sentence 

Worse than Abi ram's. 



24 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

" This," says Southey, " was the character of his mad- 
ness — the most dreadful in which madness can present 
itself. He threw away the Bible, as a book in which he 
no longer had any interest or portion. A vein of self- 
loathing and abhorrence ran through all his insanity, and 
he passed some months in continual expectation that the 
Divine vengeance would instantly plunge him into the 
bottomless pit. But horrors in madness are like those 
in dreams; the maniac and the dreamer seem to undergo 
what could not possibly be undergone by one awake or in 
his senses." With Dr. Cotton, Cowper remained five 
months, without amendment ; but after discovering va- 
rious symptoms of returning reason, during the next three, 
"my despair," he says, "suddenly took wings, and left 
me in joy unspeakable, and full of glory." 

When his recovery was considered complete, his 
relatives subscribed an annual allowance, just sufficient, 
with his own small means, to support him respectably in 
retirement, and sent him to reside at Huntingdon. Here 
he soon became greatly attached to the family of Mr. 
Unwin, a clergyman, in whose house he finally took up 
his abode. From this excellent family he never separated, 
until death dissolved their connection. Mrs. Unwin, the 
a Mary" of one of his most popular minor poems, was his 
friend in health, and his nurse in sickness, for more than 
twenty years. 

Of his way of life at Huntingdon, he thus writes : " As 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 25 

to what the world calls amusements, we have none. "We 
refuse to take part in them, and by so doing have acquired 
the name of Methodists. We breakfast between eight and 
nine : till eleven we read the Scriptures or the sermons 
of some faithful preacher, when we attend divine service, 
which is performed here, twice every day." Walking, 
gardening, reading, religious conversation, and singing 
hymns, filled up the interval till evening, when they again 
had a sermon or hymns, and closed the day with family 
worship. "I need not say," he continues, "that such a 
life as this is consistent with the utmost cheerfulness ; ac- 
cordingly we are all happy." At this time Cowper had 
little communication with his relatives, and none with his 
former companions. 

In July, 1767, Mr. Unwin died ; his children had pre- 
viously settled in life; and Cowper and Mrs. Unwin 
uniting their means of living, now much reduced, went 
to reside at Olney. Here they lived many years under 
the pastoral care of the celebrated Mr. Newton, with 
whom they were in the strictest habits of personal inti- 
macy. 

"Mr. Newton," says Southey, "was a man whom it 
was impossible not to admire for his strength and sin- 
cerity of heart, vigorous intellect, and sterling worth. 
A sincerer friend Cowper could not have found: he 
might have found a more discreet one." Cowper' s reli- 
gious duties and exercises were now much more arduous 



26 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

than at Huntingdon. This "man of trembling sensibili- 
ties" attended the sick, and administered consolation to 
the dying ; and so constantly was he employed in offices 
of this kind, that he was considered as a sort of curate 
to Mr. Newton. In the prayer-meetings which Mr. 
Newton established, Cowper, to whom "public exhibi- 
tion of himself was mortal poison," was expected to take 
a part. "I have heard him say," says Mr. Greatheed, 
in Cowper' s funeral sermon, "that when he was ex- 
pected to take the lead in your social worship, his mind 
was always greatly agitated for some hours preceding." 

Cowper's correspondence with his friends was now 
even more restricted than heretofore. This was partly 
owing to his engagements with Mr. Newton, from whom 
he was seldom "seven waking hours apart;" but it was 
the tendency of those engagements to restrict his sym- 
pathies, and render his friendships torpid. "A letter on 
any other subject than that of religion," he writes at 
this time, "is more insipid to me than even my task 
was when a schoolboy." He read little, and had little 
society except that of Mr. Newton and Mrs. Unwin; 
and the only really intellectual occupation in which he 
was engaged for nearly seven years, was the composition 
of some of the " Olney Hymns." This, Hayley represents 
as a "perilous employment" for a mind like Cowper's; 
"and if," says Southey, "Cowper expressed his own 
state of mind in these hymns (and that he did so, who 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 27 

can doubt), Hayley has drawn the right conclusion from 
the fact." 

His malady was now about to return. Its recurrence 
has been referred to various causes ; — the death of his 
brother, and a supposed engagement of marriage with 
Mrs. Unwin, have both been adduced, as the probable 
occasions; the latter of which, Southey considers as 
utterly unfounded. 

Cowper's mind was, doubtless, at all times, highly 
susceptible of derangement from several causes. The 
disease, which was inherent to his constitution, only 
required some untoward circumstance to develop it. 
And the chief disturbing influence at this time, appears 
to have been religious excitement. His tender, willing, 
and easily-troubled spirit, had so often thrilled with the 
ecstasies of devotion, and had so often been agitated 
and repulsed by those of its duties, which were un- 
congenial, and to him, even revolting, that it at last be- 
came epileptic. He sometimes speaks of his heart as if 
it was paralyzed ; and the moaning burden of his later 
hymns is that he " cannot feel." According to Mr. New- 
ton's own account of himself, " his name was up through 
the country, for preaching people mad ;" it would there- 
fore seem to follow, that he should have been the last 
person in the world, to take spiritual charge of one, who 
had once been a madman. But from whatever cause, 
in January, 1773, Cowper's case had become one of de- 



28 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

cided insanity. Medical advice was not sought until 
eight months after this time ; as Mr. Newton, believing 
his disease to be entirely the work of the Enemy, ex- 
pected his cure only by the special interposition of Pro- 
vidence. "From what I told Dr. Cotton," Mr. Newton 
writes in August, " he seemed to think it a difficult case. 
It may be so according to medical rules ; but I still hope 
the Great Physician will cure him either by giving a 
blessing to means, or immediately by his own hand." 
But Cowper still continued to grow worse, and in the 
following October, he attempted suicide. A remarkable 
characteristic of his delirium, at this time, and one which 
shows how strongly; even in insanity, Cowper was in- 
fluenced by conscience, was his perfect submission- to 
what he believed to be the will of God. " And he be- 
lieved," says Mr. Newton, "that it was the will of God, 
he should, after the example of Abraham, perform an 
expensive act of obedience, and offer not a son, but 
himself." He again believed, as heretofore, that, by a 
sort of special act, he had been excluded from salvation, 
and all the gifts of the Spirit ; and with " deplorable 
consistency," says Mr. Greatheed, " abstained not only 
from public and domestic worship, but also from private 
prayer." 

In this state of hopeless misery he remained till the 
ensuing May, when he began to manifest symptoms of 
amendment. "Yesterday," writes Mr. Newton, May 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 29 

14th, " as he was feeding chickens, — for he is always 
busy if he can get out of doors, — some little incident 
made him smile ; I am pretty sure it was the first smile 
that has been seen upon his face for more than sixteen 
months." Soon after this he began to pay some atten- 
tion to gardening : and in gardening, and other light 
occupations, he continued to employ himself nearly two 
years, gradually improving in health and spirits, but 
incapable of being entertained either by books or com- 
pany. It was at this interval that Cowper amused him- 
self with the far-famed hares, Tiney, Puss, and Bess, 
which he has immortalized, both in verse and prose. 

But in the autumn of 1777, though his fatal delusion 
respecting his spiritual welfare continued, his intellect 
and social feelings awoke to activity. He now renewed 
his correspondence with some of his old friends, his love 
of reading revived, and he occasionally produced a small 
poem. Mrs. Unwin, observing the happy effect of com- 
position on his health and spirits, now excited him to 
more decided literary exertion ; and, at her suggestion, 
he commenced his Moral Satires. So eagerly did he 
pursue his new employment, that the first of these poems 
was written in December, 1780, and the last in the fol- 
lowing March. 

These productions met with the approbation of his 
friends, and by them, — for Cowper was almost indifferent 



30 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

on the subject, — it was finally determined to publish 
them. 

Mr. Newton had the year previous, much to Cowper' s 
regret, removed to London. But the loss of his society 
was for a time more than made up by a new acquain- 
tance. This was Lady Austen, a highly intelligent and 
agreeable woman, the widow of a baronet, who, while 
Cowper was preparing his volume for the press, visited 
Olney; and the acquaintance which w r as then formed, 
soon ripened into such warm friendship, between Cow- 
per and Mrs. Unwin and herself, that she ultimately, in 
consequence, came to Olney to reside. Their kindly in- 
tercourse, however,- after continuing about two years, 
w r as unhappily broken off; and love and jealousy have 
been mentioned as among the causes of their estrange- 
ment. That there may have been jealousy of attention and 
of influence between "two women constantly in the so- 
ciety of one man," and that man, Cowper, all, who know 
the female heart, will readily believe. But it does not 
appear, as has been asserted, that there was any expecta- 
tion of marriage entertained by either of the parties. 
Cowper and Mrs. Unwin, who w T as considerably older 
than himself, had now lived together some years on 
joint income ; and no pecuniary objection existed to 
their union. But the only union that either desired, 
had long since been formed. It was a union purely of 
the nobler sympathies — of religious and social feelings — 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 31 

of self-sacrificing devotedncss, and of consequent grate- 
ful affection ; — such as must, almost of necessity, arise 
between a man and a woman, possessed of the highest 
moral qualities, and relatively situated as they were to 
each other, hut which the vulgar and censorious (great 
and small) cannot or will not understand. As to Lady 
Austen, Cowper's own account of the matter is, that she 
had too much vivacity for their staid course of life, that 
the attentions she exacted interfered with his studies, 
and that she was too easily offended ; hence a coldness 
ensued, and finally a separation. But while the in- 
timacy continued, Lady Austen undoubtedly exercised 
a highly valuable influence on Cowper's literary efforts. 
" Had it not been for Mrs. Unwin," says Southey, 
" Cowper would probably never have appeared in his 
own person as an author ; had it not been for Lady 
Austen, he would never have been a popular one." His 
first volume of Poems, which was published in 1782, 
obtained but little notice, except among his friends ; but 
to please his friends was sufficient for Cowper, and he 
continued to write, notwithstanding the disregard of the 
public. Lady Austen, whose conversation, for a time, 
is said to have had " as happy an effect on his spirits as 
the harp of David upon Saul," one afternoon, when he 
was unusually depressed, told him the story of John 
Gilpin, which she had heard in her childhood. The 
story amused him greatly, and before the next morning, 



32 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

he had turned it into a ballad. This soon found its way 
into the newspapers, and some time afterwards, it was 
recited, with wonderful effect, by Henderson, the actor, 
who was then delivering public recitations at Freema- 
son's Hall. The ballad now became suddenly popular, 
and Gilpin was to be seen in every print-shop, while the 
author was unknown. Meantime the Task, suggested 
also by Lady Austen, and far the best and most popular 
of his longer poems, had been completed ; it was pub- 
lished in 1785, and with it, was printed John Gilpin. 
Cowper was therefore known to be its author ; and those 
who had been amused with the ballad, now read the 
Task, and inquired 'for his previous volume, and Cowper 
became, at once, the most popular poet of the day. 

In November, 1784, immediately after the completion 
of the Task, Cowper began the translation of Homer. 
He had now found by experience that regular employment 
was essential to his well-being ; — employment too, of a 
really intellectual nature, such as would call into ac- 
tivity, without too much exciting, the best powers of his 
mind. "A long and perplexing thought," he said, 
" buzzed about in his brain, till it seemed to be breaking 
all the fibres of it." " Plaything-avocations" wearied him, 
while such as engaged him much, and attached him 
closely, were rather serviceable than otherwise. 

The unfaithfulness of Pope's translation of Homer had 
long been universally acknowledged by scholars, and 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 33 

Cowper, who was well qualified for the task, after trans- 
lating one book, as he says, for want of employment, 
" became convinced that he could render an acceptable 
service to the literary world by translating the whole." 
The undertaking thus commenced, he availed himself of 
the Gentleman's Magazine, to produce on the public an 
impression favorable to his design, and issued proposals 
to publish by subscription. His Poems had been given 
away, and when published, he had been careless of popu- 
lar favor in respect to them. But fame, coming, as it 
did, unexpectedly, was not the less welcome to him ; 
and he was now, not only anxious to sustain it, by the 
success of his present undertaking, but also to secure a 
profitable result to himself. "Five hundred names," he 
writes, "at three guineas, will put about a thousand 
pounds in my purse ; and I am doing my best to obtain 
them." And again, to Lady Hesketh, " I am not ashamed 
to confess that having commenced author, I am most 
abundantly desirous to succeed as such. I have (what 
perhaps you little suspect me of) in my nature, an infinite 
share of ambition. But with it, I have at the same time, 
as you well know, an equal share of diffidence. To this 
combination of opposite qualities, it has been owing, that 
till lately, I stole through life without undertaking any- 
thing, yet always wishing to distinguish myself." 

During this and the following year, Cowper advanced 
steadily with his translation, receiving much attention 



34 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

and encouragement from his friends. Through the kind- 
ness of Lady Hesketh, and his neighbor, Sir John Throck- 
morton, he and Mrs. Unwin were enabled to remove to 
the Lodge, at Weston-Underwood, about a mile from 
Olney, which was far more commodious and healthful 
than their habitation at Olney. 

Lady Hesketh's occasional visits, at this time, were 
also a source of much enjoyment to him, and his grateful 
and affectionate heart was strongly moved and interested 
by the singular kindness manifested for him by an anony- 
mous correspondent. " Hours and hours and hours," he 
writes Lady Hesketh, in reference to this subject, "have 
I spent in endeavors, altogether fruitless, to trace the 
writer of the letter that I send, by a minute examination 
of the character, and never did it strike me, till this 
moment, that your father wrote it." This suspicion, 
Lady Hesketh, who was apparently in the secret, did not 
confirm. The letter in question was, evidently, from 
some one minutely acquainted with the circumstances of 
Cowper's early life ; and after many expressions of kind- 
ness and encouragement, the writer concludes by present- 
ing him with an annuity of fifty pounds. After receiving 
another letter from the same source, Cowper writes, 
" Anonymous is come again. May God bless him who- 
ever he may be ;" and he adds, in a postscript, " I kept 
my letter unsealed to the last moment, that I might give 
you an account of the expected parcel. It is, at all points, 



SKETCH OP HIS LIFE. 35 

worthy of the letter-writer. Snuff-box, purse, notes — 
Bess, Puss, Tiney, — all safe. Again may God bless him !" 
On the snuff-box was a view of the " Peasant's Nest," 
as described in the Task, with the figures of three hares 
in the foreground. And for these " womanly presents," 
as Southey calls them, he appoints Lady Hesketh his 
"receiver general of thanks ;" as "it is very pleasant, 
my dear cousin," he says, "to receive presents, so deli- 
cately conveyed, but it is also very painful to have no- 
body to thank for them." "Alas, the love of woman !" 
Southey conjectures that Anonymous was no other than 
Theodora, the object of Cowper's early love, whom he 
had not seen for five-and-twenty years. 

In one of those sincere, affectionate, and inimitably 
graceful letters, written, about this time, to his favorite 
cousin Lady Hesketh, which have secured to Cowper the 
title of "the best of English letter-writers," he gives the 
following retrospect of his state of mind : — 

" You do not ask me, my dear, for an explanation of 
what I could mean by anguish of mind. Because you do 
not ask, and because your reason for not asking consists of 
a delicacy and tenderness peculiar to yourself; for that 
very cause I will tell you. A wish suppressed is more 
irresistible than many wishes plainly uttered. Know then 
that in the year 1773, the same scene that was acted at 
St. Albans, opened upon me again at Olney, only covered 
by a still deeper shade of melancholy; and ordained 



36 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

to be of much longer duration. I was suddenly reduced 
from my wonted rate of understanding, to an almost 
childish imbecility. I did not, indeed, lose my senses, but 
I lost the power to exercise them. I could return a ra- 
tional answer, even to a difficult question ; but a ques- 
tion was necessar3 T , or I never spoke. I believed that 
everybody hated me, and that Mrs. Unwin hated me 
worst of all, — was convinced that all my food was poi- 
soned, together with ten thousand megrims of the same 
stamp. I would not be more circumstantial than is ne- 
cessary. Dr. Cotton was consulted. He recommended 
particular vigilance lest I should attempt my life, — a 
caution for which there was the greatest occasion. At 
the same time that I was convinced of Mrs. Unwin's 
aversion for me, I could endure no other companion. 
The whole management of me consequently devolved 
upon her, and a terrible task she had. She performed 
it, however, with a cheerfulness hardly ever equalled on 
such an occasion ; and I have often heard her say, that if 
she ever praised God in her life, it was when she found 
that she was to have all the labor. Methinks I hear you 
ask — your affection for me, will, I know, make you wish 
to do so — ' Is your malady removed V I reply in a great 
measure, but not quite. Occasionally I am much dis- 
tressed, but that distress becomes continually less frequent 
and, I think, less violent. I find writing, and especially 
poetry, my best remedy. Perhaps had I understood 
music, I had never written verse, but had lived on fiddle- 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 37 

strings instead I have been emerging gradually 

from this pit. As soon as I became capable of action, I 
commenced carpenter, made cupboards, boxes and stools. 
I grew weary of this in a twelvemonth, and addressed 
myself to the making of bird-cages. To this employment 
succeeded that of gardening, which I intermingled with 
that of drawing ; but finding that the latter occupation 
injured my eyes, I renounced it, and commenced poet. 
I have given you, my dear, a little history in short hand. 
I know it will touch your feelings ; but do not let it inte- 
rest them too much." 

According to Cowper's narrative of his first attack, he 
believed that his disease was entirely the work of the 
Enemy, and that his recovery was supernatural. Mr. 
Newton and Mrs. Unwin were of the same opinion, and 
many months elapsed, as we have seen, after the com- 
mencement of the second attack, — much the most vio- 
lent and protracted, — before they could bring themselves 
to seek earthly remedies. But Mr. Newton was now 
away, and Mrs. Unwin, says Southey, "was governed by 
her natural good sense;" and the rational view of his 
condition which Cowper took at the time of writing this 
letter, was such as to induce the reasonable hope of his 
perfect restoration. Of the religious impulses by which 
he had been actuated, while at Olney, he thus speaks r 
"Good is intended, but harm is done too often, by the 
zeal with which I was at that time animated." 



38 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

But despair of salvation never wholly left him after 
his second attack ; and this feeling discovers itself, more 
or less strongly, in all his letters to Mr. Newton. 

From a sincere, but mistaken zeal for Cowper's spiri- 
tual welfare, Mr. Newton seems to have interfered at this 
time rather unwarrantably in his domestic affairs. He 
objected to their removal to Weston ; and because 
Cowper and Mrs. Unwin had occasionally visited the 
Throckmortons and other neighboring gentry, accused 
them of deviating into forbidden paths, and seeking 
worldly amusement and society. In reply to one of his 
letters of censure, Cowper says: "You say well that 
there was a time when I was happy at Olney, and I am 
as happy now as I expect to be anywhere without the 
presence of God." And again: "Be assured, that not- 
withstanding all rumors to the contrary, we are exactly 
what we were when you saw us last ; — I miserable on ac- 
count of God's departure from me, which I believe to 
be final; and she seeking his return to me in the path of 
duty, and by continual prayer." This was his constant 
and abiding impression ; — and so constant was it, that in 
time, it lost something of its gloomy effect on his spirits. 
Scott, in his Demonology, narrates the case of a man, 
who was so -constantly attended by a frightful spectral 
illusion, that from the effect of custom, he came at last 
to speak of it quietly, and was, at times, almost uncon- 
scious of its presence. Cowper's case was, in some re- 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 39 

spects, similar to this. He sometimes adverts to his 
despair as a matter of course, and without much emotion. 
"I would," he writes Mr. Newton, "that I could see 
some of the mountains that you have seen ; especially, 
because Dr. Johnson has pronounced that no man is 
qualified to be a poet, who has never seen a mountain. 
But mountains I shall never see, unless it be in a dream, 
or unless there are such in heaven; nor then, unless I 
receive twice as much mercy as ever yet was shown to 
any man." 

His disease had now been dormant for some years ; 
but in January 1787 (a month which he always dreaded), 
it again became active. He now once more attempted 
suicide, and would have effected it, but for Mrs. Unwin, 
who finding him suspended by the neck, possessed pre- 
sence of mind enough to cut him down. His malady 
was quite as severe as on former occasions, but of much 
shorter duration. There is no other account of it than 
the little which his own letters furnish, after his recovery. 
" My indisposition could not be of a worse kind. The 
sight of any face, except Mrs. Unwin's, was an insuppor- 
table grievance. From this dreadful condition I emerged 
suddenly." In about seven months, he appears to have 
renewed his intercourse with his neighbors, and re- 
sumed his correspondence. Writing to Lady Hesketh 
of his renewed health, he says, "I have but little confi- 
dence, in truth none, in so flattering a change, but ex- 



40 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

pect, when I least expect it, to wither again. The past is 
a pledge for the future." And again, to the same: "I 
continue to write, though in compassion to my pate, you 
advised me, for the present, to abstain. In reality, I 
have no need, at least I believe not, of any such caution. 
Those jarrings which made my skull feel like a broken 
egg-shell, and those twirls which I spoke of, have been 
removed by an infusion of bark." In another letter, he 
thus playfully speaks of his diseased sensations: "I have 
a perpetual din in my head, and though I am not deaf, 
hear nothing aright ; neither my own voice, nor that of 
others. I am under a tub, from which tub, accept my 
best love. Yours, - W. C." 

But in the letter with which he renewed his corre- 
spondence with Mr. Newton, he still speaks of gloom and 
despair, and of " the storms of which even the remem- 
brance makes hope impossible." The same letter also 
exhibits a peculiar and distinct feature in this most re- 
markable case of insanity. " My dear friend," he begins, 
"after a long but necessary interruption of our corre- 
spondence, I return to it again, in one respect at least, 
better qualified for it than before ; I mean by a belief in 
your identity, which for thirteen years I did not believe." 

Cowper now resumed his translation, which he pur- 
sued during the next four years with little interruption. 
In the circumstances of his life at this time, there was 
much to cheer him. His abode was comfortable, his 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 41 

employment satisfactory, his reputation established and 
increasing, he had renewed his correspondence with his 
relatives, and some of the companions of his early life, 
by whom he was occasionally visited ; and Lady Hes- 
keth's annual visits, and the society of the Throckmor- 
tons, which, notwithstanding Mr. Newton's censure, he 
and Mrs. Unwin still continued to enjoy, afforded him 
the relaxation of happy social intercourse. An incident, 
too, which with its attendant circumstances, added much 
to Cowper's happiness during the latter portion of this 
interval, was the receipt of his mother's picture. " It 
was his lot," to quote Southey's Narrative, "happy in- 
deed in this respect, to form new friendships as he ad- 
vanced in years, instead of having to mourn for the dis- 
solution of old ones by death. During seven-and-twenty 
years he had held no intercourse with his maternal rela- 
tions, and knew not whether they were living or dead ; 
the malady which made him withdraw from the world 
seems, in its milder consequences, to have withheld him 
from making any inquiry concerning them; and from 
their knowledge he had entirely disappeared till he be- 
came known to the public. One of a younger generation 
was the first to seek him out. This was Mr. John John- 
son, grandson of his mother's brother During 

his visit he observed with what affection Cowper spoke 
of his mother; the only portrait of her was in possession 
of her niece, Mrs. Bodham, who had been a favorite 



42 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

cousin of Cowper's in her childhood ; and upon young 
Johnson's report of his visit, on his return home, this 
picture was sent to Weston as a present, with a letter 
from his kinswoman, written in the fulness of her heart. 
It was replied to with kindred feeling, thus:" — 

" My dear Rose, whom I thought withered and fallen 
from the stalk, hut whom I find still alive : nothing could 
give me greater pleasure than to know it, and to learn it 
from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were a child, 
and love you not a jot the less for having ceased to he so. 
Every creature that hears any affinity to my mother is dear 
to me, and you, the daughter of her hrother, are hut one 
remove distant from her : I love you, therefore, and love 
you much, hoth for her sake and for your own. The 
world could not have furnished you with a present so ac- 
ceptable to me as the picture you have so kindly sent me. 
I received it. the night before last, and viewed it with a 
trepidation of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I 
should have felt, had the dear original presented herself to 
my embrace. I kissed it and hung it where it is the last 
object that I see at night, and, of course, the first on which 
I open my eyes in the morning. She died when I com- 
pleted my sixth year ; yet I remember her well, and am 
ocular witness of the great fidelity of the copy. I remem- 
ber, too, a multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I 
received from her, and which have endeared her memory 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 43 

to me beyond expression. There is in me, I believe, more 
of the Donne than of the Cowper ; and though I love all 
of both names, and have a thousand reasons to love those 
of my own name, yet I feel the bond of nature draw me 
vehemently to your side. I was thought in the days of my 
childhood much to resemble my mother ; and in my natu- 
ral temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight I must be 
supposed to be a competent judge, can trace both her, and 
my late uncle, your father. Somewhat of his irritability ; 
and a little, I would hope, both of his and her, — I know 
not what to call it, without seeming to praise myself, which 
is not my intention, — but speaking to you, I will even 
speak out, and say good nature. Add to this, I deal much 
in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, the Dean of St. 
Paul's and I think I have proved myself a Donne at all 
points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all. 
I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his kindness to my 
Homer, and with my love to you all, and Mrs. Unwin's 
kind respects, am 

" My dear, clear Eose, ever yours, 

"W. C." 

About this time, the laureateship became vacant by the 
death of Warton. Cowper was always ready at occasional 
verses, and his friends were desirous to procure the office 
for him ; but he declined their services in this matter, in 
the following letter to Lady Hesketh : — 



44 CO WPER ILLUSTRATED. 



The Lodge, May 28, 1790. 

My dearest Coz, — 

I thank thee for the offer of thy best services on this 
occasion. But Heaven guard my brows from the wreath 
you mention, whatever wreath beside may hereafter 
adorn them ! It would be a leaden extinguisher clapped 
on all the lire of my genius, and I would never more pro- 
duce a line worth reading. To speak seriously, it would 
make me miserable, and therefore I am sure that thou, 
of all my friends, would least wish me to wear it. 

Adieu, ever thine — in Homer-hurry. W. C. 

In the summer of 1791, his Homer was published; and 
though it does not now hold that rank among the trans- 
lated classics, which he and his friends expected it would 
establish for itself, it was, at the time, well received, its 
merits as a faithful version were allowed ; and on settling 
with his bookseller, Cowper expressed himself satisfied 
with the pecuniary result of his labor. " Few of my 
concerns," said he, "have been so happily concluded." 

In the following August (1792), Cowper made a three- 
days' journey into Sussex, to visit, at Eartham, his friend 
Haley, the poet, who had sought and made his acquain- 
tance the previous year. He was so unaccustomed to 
travel that the journey was undertaken only at the 
earnest entreaty of his friend, and not without many 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 45 

misgivings. "I laugh," he writes Haley, a few days 
before he set out, "to think what stuff these solicitudes 
are made of, and what an important thing it is for me 
to travel, while other men steal from their homes, and 
make no disturbance." Again: — "Fortunately for my 
intentions, as the day approaches, my terrors abate, for 
had they continued what they were a week since, I must, 
after all, have disappointed you." At Eartham, Cowper 
met Hurdis, Charlotte Smith, the novelist, and Romney ; 
to the latter of whom he sat for his portrait. During the 
first part of the six weeks which he spent with Haley 
and his friends, their society had a beneficial effect on 
his spirit; but at last, he began to be somewhat dejected, 
and evidently longed for the repose and seclusion of 
Weston. New scenes and strange objects, he com- 
plained, dissipated his powers of thinking, and composi- 
tion, and even letter-writing became irksome to him. 
"I am, in truth," he writes, "so unaccountably local in 
the use of the pen, that, like the man in the fable, who 
could only leap well at Rhodes, I seem incapable of 
writing at all, except at Weston. It has an air of snug 
concealment, in which a disposition like mine is pecu- 
liarly gratified." On his way home, he passed but a 
single night, — and that a gloomy one, — in London, 
which he had not visited since he left it, a madman, in 
1763. This was the only long journey that Cowper ever 
made. The year previous he wrote Hardis, " I have not 



46 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

been thirteen miles from home these twenty years, and 
so far but seldom." 

The translation of Homer, which occupied him nearly 
six years, was the last literary undertaking of importance 
which Cowper lived to finish. At the suggestion of a 
friend, he commenced a poem on the Four Ages, of 
which he at first had high hopes, but he was unable to 
make much progress in it. Previously to his engage- 
ment with Homer, he had commenced an original w T ork 
with a similar result. His Task and other poems had 
been written with ease and rapidity; but "the mind," 
he remarked, in reference to this subject, " is not a foun- 
tain, but a cistern."- The facts, observations, and im- 
pressions, which had been accumulating in his mind, 
during the somewhat long period of his life, before he 
commenced author, had gradually become, as it were, 
crystallized into thoughts and images of beautiful clear- 
ness and precision ; and to polish these and arrange them 
into verse was a healthful and amusing occupation 
rather than an irksome labor. But his resources for ori- 
ginal composition appear to have been mainly exhausted 
when he had finished the Task. For a man of litera- 
ture, his reading was limited ; he had seen but little ; and 
though he saw clearly and felt strongly, what he saw 
and felt at all, and transferred his impressions with ad- 
mirable distinctness to the minds of others, yet his sym- 
pathies were not extensive ; and where he was not at- 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 47 

traded, he was too often repulsed. At the request of 
friends, he wrote a few ballads on Slavery, and he was 
repeatedly urged to make this the subject of an extended 
poem ; but he rejected the theme as " odious and dis- 
gusting;" one which he could not bear to contemplate. 
Poet of nature as he was, his enjoyment, even, of natural 
scenery was limited ; and he complained, on his visit to 
Haley, that the wilderness of the hills and woods around 
Eartham oppressed his spirits. " Cowper," says Sir 
James Mackintosh, " does not describe the most beau- 
tiful scenes in nature ; he discovers what is most beautiful 
in ordinary scenes. His poetical eye and his moral heart 
detected beauty in the sandy flats of Buckinghamshire." 
Another design, which he undertook, at the request 
of Johnson, his bookseller, and which was also left un- 
finished, was a new edition of Milton, which was in- 
tended to rival in splendor, Boydell's Shakspeare. But 
Cowper was now beginning to feel the effects of age as 
well as of disease. Eot only this, but his old and dear 
friend, and faithful and affectionate nurse,- Mrs. Unwin, 
"who had known no wish but his for the last twenty 
years," had now fallen into a state of hopeless imbecility. 
" Their relative situation to each other," says Southey, 
"was now reversed. She was the helpless person, and 
he the attentive nurse. As her reasoning faculties de- 
cayed, her character underwent a total change, and she 
exacted constant attention from him without the slightest 



48 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

consideration for his health or state of mind. Poor crea- 
tures that we are, even the strength of religious principle 
and virtuous hahit fail us if reason fails." 

This circumstance sensibly affected his spirits; and 
though no sudden and striking change henceforth took 
place in his demeanor, it now became evident that rea- 
son was gradually losing its influence over his mind. 
This was especially shown by a correspondence which 
he commenced, about this time, with one Teedon, a 
poor, conceited schoolmaster, of Olney. Cowper had 
long been troubled, not only with hideous dreams, but 
with audible illusions. During the night, and on waking 
in the morning, he frequently heard, as he said, some 
sentence uttered in a distinct voice, to which he gave 
implicit credit, as having some relation either to his 
temporal or spiritual concerns. He had long known 
Teedon, and understood his character; and in former 
days, had sometimes been amused with his vanity and 
conceit. But he had now, by some means, become per- 
suaded that this man was especially favored by Provi- 
dence ; and to him, the sentences which he heard, with 
an account of his dreams and other nocturnal experiences, 
were regularly sent off; and the result of these "pitiable 
consultations," Cowper carefully wrote in a book till he 
had filled several volumes. The following will serve as 
specimens of these letters. " Dear Sir — I awake this 
morning, with these words relating to my work [Milton] 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 49 

loudly and distinctly spoken — 'Apply assistance in my 
case indigent and necessitous.' " Again : " This morning, 
at my waking, I heard these — ' Fulfil thy promise to me.' " 
On another occasion, he writes Teedon as follows: "I 
have been visited with a horrible dream, in which I 
seemed to be taking a final leave of my dwelling. I felt 
the tenderest regret at the separation, and looked about 
for something durable to carry with me as a memorial. 
The iron hasp of the garden-door presenting itself, I was 
on the point of taking that, but recollecting that the 
heat of the fire, in which I was going to be tormented, 
would fuse the metal, and that it would only serve to 
increase my insupportable misery, I left it. I then 
awoke in all the Jiorror with which the reality of such 
circumstances would fill me." Thus, "hunted by spiri- 
tual hounds in the night season," and by day, " forecast- 
ing the fashion of uncertain evils," the gloom of despair 
was now settling down on Cowper for the last time. 
His temporal wants were, however, now amply provided 
for; a pension of three hundred pounds having been 
granted him by government. 

In the summer of 1795, his friends thought it advi- 
sable that he and Mrs. Unwin (for it would have been 
cruel to separate them), should visit the coast for the 
benefit of the sea air. After a short sojourn at Munds- 
ley, productive of little advantage, they finally went to 
reside at East Dereham, in Norfolk, at the house of 

4 



50 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

Cowper's cousin, the Rev. John Johnson, the relative 
mentioned in a former part of this narrative, who pro- 
cured for him the portrait of his mother. Here Cowper 
remained to the end of his life, and here Mrs. Unwin 
died some time hefore him. When his health and 
spirits would permit, Cowper occupied himself at Dere- 
ham with the revisal of his Homer, and he sometimes 
wrote a few verses. The last original piece that he com- 
posed was the Castaway ; and in the words of Southey, 
"all circumstances considered, it is one of the most 
affecting that ever was composed." At length, how- 
ever, he refused either to read or write, and his only 
employment afterwards, was in listening to works of 
fiction — almost the only books that appeared to interest 
him : and " so happy," says Mr. Johnson, "was the in- 
fluence of these in riveting his attention, that he dis- 
covered peculiar satisfaction when any one of more than 
ordinary length was introduced." This being perceived 
by his kinsman, the novels of Richardson were obtained, 
and they afforded him the more pleasure on account of 
his former personal acquaintance with the author. " Per- 
haps too," Southey adds, "there may be more satisfac- 
tion in re-perusing a good book after an interval of 
many years, than is felt in reading it for the first time." 
These readings did not, however, wholly abstract Cow- 
per's mind from the contemplation of his own wretched 
state. In one of the few most melancholy letters which 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 51 

he wrote during these years to Lady Hesketh, he says, 
"I expect that in six days, at the latest, I shall no longer 
foresee, but feel the accomplishment of all my fears. O, 
lot of unexampled misery incurred in a moment ! 
wretch ! to whom death and life are alike impossible ! 
Most miserable at present in this, that being thus mi- 
serable I have my senses continued to me, only that I 
may look forward to the worst. It is certain, at least, 
that I have them for no other purpose, and but very im- 
perfectly for this. My thoughts are like loose and dry 
sand, which the closer it is grasped, slips the sooner 
away. Mr. Johnson reads to me, but I lose every other 
sentence through the inevitable wanderings of my mind, 
and experience, as I have these two years, the same 
shattered mode of thinking on every subject, and on all 
occasions. If I seem to write with more connection, it 
is only because the gaps do not appear. 

" Adieu. — I. shall not be here to receive your answer, 
neither shall I ever see you more. Such is the expecta- 
tion of the most desperate, and the most miserable of 
all beings. W. C." 

The last reading which Cowper heard was that of his 
own Poems. He listened in silence to Mr. Johnson, 
till they came to John Gilpin, but this he begged his 
kinsman to omit. In February, 1800, he was taken 
with dropsy, which in a short time confined him to his 
chamber. The physician who was called to attend him, 



52 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

asking him " how lie felt ?" "Feel!" said Cowper, "I 
feel unutterable despair !" To the consolations of reli- 
gion he refused to listen ; and when, on one occasion, 
Mr. Johnson spoke to him of a " merciful Redeemer, 
who had prepared unspeakable happiness for all his 
children, — and therefore for him," Cowper, with pas- 
sionate entreaties, begged him to desist from any further 
observations of a similar kind. A few days after this 
sad scene, the attendant offering him a cordial, he re- 
jected it, saying, "What can it signify;" and these 
were the last words he was heard to utter. He died on 
the following morning, the 25th of April, 1800. 

No one, it would seem, can read Southey's Biography 
of this blameless and suffering man of genius, without 
strong feelings of regret that he did not, earlier in life, 
resort to literature as a serious employment. Full and 
congenial occupation was absolutely indispensable, not 
merely, as in ordinary cases, to his enjoyment of life, 
but to his exemption from the most cruel disease ; and 
to any other pursuits than those of literature, his 
wretched nervous system rendered him utterly incom- 
petent. What Goethe says of Hamlet, may, with some 
modification, apply to Cowper. Any of the common 
avocations, and any of the onerous and vexatious duties 
of life, were to him as " an oak tree planted in a costly 
jar, which should have borne only pleasant flowers in 
its bosom ; the roots expand, the jar is shivered." It is 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 53 

scarcely probable that any combination of circumstances 
could have availed wholly to avert the malady which 
poisoned his existence. His whole system, both of mind 
and body, was so peculiar in its organization, — so admi- 
rable in some of its parts, and so feeble and defective in 
others, — that too much, or too little, or any uncongenial 
action, was sure to disturb or destroy its balance. But 
literature, though tried late, proved to be infinitely the 
best remedy to soothe and regulate this diseased action ; 
and had Cowper found at Huntingdon the employment 
and the society which he at last, after the departure of 
Mr. Newton, found at Olney and Weston, he might, 
perchance, have escaped many years of woe. 




p. 5-1. 



cowper's summer house. 



PARTICULAR AND AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT 



WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 



FROM A SERMON 



S. GREATHEED, 



AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF THE POET. 



AN 



AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 



The entrance of Mr. Cowper upon the transient 
scenes of this life, led to a kind of eminence very diffe- 
rent from that he attained. Born of amiable and re- 
spectable parents, of noble affinity, and connected with 
persons of great worldly influence, his advancement in 
temporal affluence and honor seemed to demand no ex- 
traordinary mental endowments. His opening genius 
discovered, however, a capacity for elegant literature, 
and he enjoyed the best advantages for improvement in 
so pleasing a pursuit. 

With uncommon abilities, he possessed a most amia- 
ble temper; and he became not only the darling of his 
relations, but beloved and admired by his associates in 
education ; some of whom with inferior prospects have 
since risen to distinguished reputation, and even to the 
highest professional rank. But the towering hopes that 
were naturally built on so flattering a ground, were un- 



58 COWPEK ILLUSTRATED. 

dermined at an early period. From childhood (during 
which our late friend lost a much-loved parent) his 
spirits were always tender, and often greatly dejected. 
His natural diffidence and depression of mind were in- 
creased to a most distressing degree hy the turbulence 
of his elder comrades, at the most celebrated school in 
the kingdom: and when at a mature age he was ap- 
pointed to a lucrative and honorable station in the Law, 
he shrunk with the greatest terror from the appearance 
which it required him to make before the House of 
Lords. Several affecting circumstances concurred to 
increase the agony of his mind, while revolving the con- 
sequences of relinquishing the post to which he had 
been nominated ; and he wished for madness as the only 
apparent means by which his perplexity and distress 
could be terminated. A desperation of which few 
among mankind can form a suitable conception, but 
which it may be hoped many will regard with tender 
pity, drove him to attempt self-murder ; and the manner 
of his preservation in life, or rather of his restoration to 
it, indicated an unusual interposition of the providence 
of God. His friends no longer persisted in urging him 
to retain his office. It was resigned, and with it his flat- 
tering prospects vanished, and his connection with the 
world dissolved. 

At this awful -crisis appears to have commenced Mr. 
Cowper's serious attention to the ways of God. Having 



AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. 59 

been educated in the knowledge of the Holy Scriptures, 
and estranged from the foolhardy arrogance which urges 
unhappy youth to infidelity, he had constantly retained 
a reverence for the word of God. His manners were, in 
general, decent and amiable, and the course of pleasure 
in which he indulged himself, being customary with 
persons in similar circumstances, he remained insensible 
of his state as a sinner in the sight of God, till he was 
brought to reflect upon the guilt of that action, by which 
he had nearly plunged himself into an endless eternity. 
His mind was then for the first time convinced of the 
evil of sin, as a transgression of the law of God; and he 
was terrified by the apprehension that his late offence 
was unpardonable in its nature. Instead of finding re- 
lief in reading, every book he opened, of whatever kind, 
seemed to him adapted to increase his distress, which 
became so pungent as to deprive him of his usual rest, 
and to render his broken slumbers equally miserable 
with his waking hours. While in this state he was 
visited by the late Rev. Martin Madan, who was related 
to him. By explaining from the Scriptures the doctrine 
of original sin, Mr. Madan convinced him that all man- 
kind were on the same level with himself before God ; 
the atonement and righteousness of Christ were set forth 
to him as the remedy which his case required ; and the 
necessity of faith in Christ, in order to experience the 



60 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

blessings of salvation, excited his earnest desire for the 
attainment. 

His mind derived present ease from these important 
truths ; but still inclined to the supposition that this faith 
was in his own power. The following day he again sunk 
under the horror of perdition, and that distraction which 
he had sought as a refuge from the fear of man, now 
seized him amidst his terrors of eternal judgment. A 
vein of self-loathing ran through the whole of his in- 
sanity, and his faculties were so completely deranged, 
that the attempt which he had so lately deplored as an 
unpardonable transgression, now appeared to him an 
indispensable work of piety. He therefore repeated the 
assault upon his own life, under the dreadful delusion 
that it was right to rid the earth of such a sinner, and 
that the sooner it was accomplished, his future misery 
would be the more tolerable. His purpose being again 
mercifully frustrated, he became at length familiar with 
despair, and suffered it to be alleviated by conversation 
with a pious and humane physician at St. Albans, under 
whose care he had happily been placed. He began to 
take some pleasure in sharing daily the domestic worship 
which was laudably practised by Dr. Cotton; and he 
found relief from his despair by reading in the Scrip- 
tures, that " God hath sent forth Christ Jesus to be a 
propitiation, through faith in his blood, to declare his 
righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, 



AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. 61 

through the forbearance of God." "While meditating 
upon this passage, he obtained a clear view of the 
Gospel, which was attended with unspeakable joy. His 
subsequent days were chiefly occupied with praise and 
prayer, and his heart overflowed with love to his cruci- 
fied Redeemer. A hymn which he wrote under these 
delightful impressions, will best describe the comfort he 
enjoyed,— 

" How blest thy creature is, oh God !" &c. 

The first transports of his joy, which almost prevented 
his necessary sleep, having subsided, were followed by a 
sweet serenity of spirit, which he was enabled to retain, 
notwithstanding reviving struggles of the corruptions 
with which sin has universally infested our nature. The 
comfort which he enjoyed in the profitable conversation 
of his beloved physician, induced him to prolong his 
stay at St. Albans for twelve months after his recovery. 

Having determined upon renouncing his profession of 
the law, he retired first to Huntingdon, and two or three 
years afterwards to Olney, in order to indulge, amidst 
rural scenes, those religious pleasures and occupations 
which experience had taught him to value far above all 
that the polite and busy world could afford. Another 
of his hymns expresses what he felt when entering on 
his retirement : — 

" Far from the world, Lord, I flee." 



62 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

Those of you, says Mr. Greatheecl, who for thirty years 
have lived in the fear of God, can testify to the truth of 
the remark last quoted. Often have I heard described 
the religious condescension with which our deceased 
friend listened to your religious converse ; the sympathy 
with which he soothed your distresses, and the wisdom 
with which he imparted needful advice. At your stated 
meetings for prayer, you have heard him, w T ith benefit 
and delight, pour forth his heart before God, in earnest 
intercession, with adoration equally simple, sublime, and 
fervent, adapted to the unusual combination of elevated 
genius, exquisite sensibility, and profound piety that 
distinguished his mind. It was, I believe, only on such 
occasions as these, that his constitutional diffidence was 
felt by him as a burden, during this happy period of his 
life. 

I have heard him say that when he expected to take 
the lead in your united prayers, his mind was greatly 
agitated for some hours preceding. But he observed 
that his trepidation wholly subsided as soon as he began 
to speak in prayer ; and that timidity which he invaria- 
bly felt at every appearance before his fellow-creatures, 
gave place to an awful, yet delightful consciousness of 
the presence of his Saviour. His walk with God in 
private was consistent with the solemnity and fervor of 
his social engagements. Like the prophet Daniel, and 
the royal Psalmist, "he kneeled three times a clay," and 



AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. 63 

prayed and gave thanks before his God in retirement, 
besides the regular practice of domestic worship. His 
mind was stayed upon God ; and for an unusual course 
of years it was kept in perfect peace. 

The corrupt dispositions which have so strong a hold 
upon the human heart, appeared to be peculiarly sup- 
pressed in him ; and when in any degree felt, they were 
lamented and resisted by him. His hymns, mostly 
written during this part of his life, described both the 
general tenor of his thoughts, and their occasional wan- 
derings, with a force of expression dictated by the liveli- 
ness of his feelings. "While his attainments in the love 
of God were thus eminent, you, my friends, can testify 
the exemplary love that he practised towards his neigh- 
bors. To a conduct void of offence towards every in- 
dividual, and marked with peculiar kindness to all who 
feared God, was added a beneficence fully proportioned 
to his ability, and exercised with the greatest modesty 
and discretion. The consolation, which, after having 
endured the severest distress, Mr. Cowper derived at 
this time from a life of faith in Christ, he thus describes 
in an affecting allegory : — 

" I was a stricken deer that left the herd 
Long since ; with many an arrow deep infixed 
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew, 
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
There I was found by one who had himself 



64 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, 

And in his hands and feet the cruel scars. 

With gentle force soliciting the darts, 

He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live /" 

This testimony to the truth and solidity of that peace 
with God through Jesus Christ, he published long after 
he had lost all enjoyment of the blessing, but who 
would not have hoped to see his path, like that of the 
sun, shine more and more unto the perfect day ? The 
degree and the duration of his spiritual comforts had 
perhaps exceeded the usual experience of pious people ; 
and some suspension of them would not have been sur- 
prising; but who could have expected their total and 
final extinction ? 

Let us now contemplate, continues Mr. G., the dreary 
path that our deceased neighbor trod so long. He con- 
ceived some presentiment of this sad reverse as it drew 
near ; and during a solitary walk in the fields composed 
the hymn — 

" God moves in a mysterious way." 

Many have visited its gloomy entrance, and some have 
been a tedious while bewildered in it ; but none within 
my knowledge have traced as he did, its whole extent. 
The steps by which he ascended to it were sudden and 
awfully precipitous. The bright yet serene lustre which 
had usually marked the road which led him to the Lamb, 



AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. 65 

was succeeded by impenetrable darkness. After the 
clearest views of the love of God, and the expansion 
of heart which he had enjoyed in his ways, his mind 
became obscured, confused, and dismayed. He con- 
cluded, as too many have done under so sensible a 
change, that the Lord had cast him off, that he would 
be favorable no more, that His mercy was clean gone 
forever. That vivid imagination which often attained 
the utmost limits of the sphere of reason, did but too 
easily transgress them ; and his spirits, no longer sus- 
tained upon the wings of Faith and Hope, sunk with 
their weight of natural depression into the abyss of 
absolute despair. In this state his mind became im- 
movably fixed. He cherished an unalterable persuasion 
that the Lord, after having renewed him in holiness, 
had doomed him to everlasting perdition. The doc- 
trines in which he had been established, directly op- 
posed such a conclusion ; and he remained still equally 
convinced of their general truth ; but he supposed him- 
self to be the only person that ever believed with the 
heart unto righteousness, and was notwithstanding ex- 
cluded from salvation. In this state of mind, with a 
deplorable consistency, he ceased not only upon atten- 
dance of public and domestic worship, but likewise from 
every attempt at private prayer ; apprehending that for 
him to implore mercy, would be opposing the determi- 
nate counsel of God. Amidst these dreadful tempta- 

5 



66 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

tions, sncli was his unshaken submission to what he 
imagined to be the Divine pleasure, that he was accus- 
tomed to say, " If holding up my finger w T ould save me 
from endless torments, I would not do it against the will 
of God." He never dared to enter a place of worship 
when invited to do so ; he has said, " Had I the universe, 
I would give it to go with you ; but I dare not do it 
against the will of God !" 

It was only at seasons when, racked by the immediate 
expectation of being plunged into everlasting misery, 
his mind became wholly distracted, that he ever uttered 
a rebellious word against that God of love, whom his 
lamentable delusion transformed into an implacable op- 
pressor. His efforts at self-destruction were repeatedly 
renewed, but they were stimulated by a strong impres- 
sion that God had commanded him to perpetrate this 
act ; and he even supposed that his involuntary failure 
in the performance had incurred the irrevocable ven- 
geance of the Almighty. To this, and never to any 
other deficiency of obedience, have I heard him describe 
his imaginary exclusion from mercy. Habituated to the 
fearful expectation of judgment, it became, as at the 
period heretofore described, by degrees less insupporta- 
ble. He became accessible to a few intimate friends in 
succession, who labored to divert his thoughts from the 
dreadful object that engrossed them, and to excite them 
to activity on different subjects. Thus originated most 



AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. 67 

of those poems, which, when published, charmed and 
surprised both the literary and religious world. The at- 
tempt was successful in that which interested him much 
more than poetical fame; his partial relief from self- 
torment. Sometimes his mind was led so far from the 
vortex of distress, as to indulge in playful essays ; but 
these intervals were extremely transient. In general, 
his poems are the evident dictates of that reverence for 
God, that esteem for the Gospel, and that benevolence 
towards his fellow-creatures, which characterized his 
familiar conversation. Sometimes his thoughts in com- 
position glanced upon the subject he designed to avoid, 
and nothing can afford a more striking picture of himself 
than some lines in his poems on retirement — 

" Look where he comes in this embowered alcove." 

The connection of this passage is highly beautiful. It 
closes with advice to the pitiable sufferer (which, alas ! 
Mr. Cowper could not exemplify), to seek the favor of 
God, as the only balm for a wounded spirit. At times, 
indeed, after more than twelve years of uninterrupted 
despair, some transient changes of his mental sensations 
admitted a gleam of hope, of which he immediately 
availed himself for a renewal of intercourse with God. 
He prayed in private as before his affliction, and even 
his slumbers were thus delightfully occupied. He has 
spoken of such nights with those he usually endured, as 



68 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

passed on a bed of rose-leaves instead of fury tortures, 
and as a transition from hell to heaven. These lucid 
intervals were unhappily so short, that he never resumed 
his attendance on public worship. The most tolerable 
days that he spent in the customary state of his mind, 
he has described to me as begun with traces of horror, 
and left by the most frightful dreams. The forenoon, 
being employed in composition, became gradually less 
distressing. Before dinner he usually walked two hours, 
and the air, the rural prospect, and muscular exercise, 
contributed to his further relief. If at dinner and 
during the afternoon he had the company of an inti- 
mate friend or two, which was frequently the case during 
the last ten years that he lived in the neighborhood of 
Olney, their conversation seemed to afford the principal 
alleviation to his habitual burden. The evening was 
commonly employed in reading aloud to some friend 
who resided with him ; for such was the care of God 
over this amiable sufferer, that he never was left with- 
out some companion, whose heart the Lord disposed to 
sacrifice every comfort for his preservation and relief. 

But as night approached, his gloom of mind regularly 
increased, and when he went to bed it was not to rest, 
but to be again harassed in slumber with the terrifying 
images of a bewildered fancy ; neither restrained by the 
control of reason, nor diverted by external objects. Of 
the general condition of his mind during the last seven 



AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. 69 

years of his abode in the vicinity of Olney (which cer- 
tainly were the most tranquil that he passed in the latter 
part of his life), the best judgment may be formed from 
his own expressions in a poem written towards the close 
of that interval. It was occasioned by the unexpected 
acquisition of a small portrait of his mother, whom he 
had lost more than half a century before, but had never 
ceased to remember with the warmest gratitude, and the 
fondest affection. 

Having described hers and his father's passage 
through this life to a heavenly world, under the figure 
of a voyage speedily and prosperously terminated, he 
naturally reverts in the same metaphorical language to 
the distressing contrast which his own situation and 
prospects presented. 

" But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
Always from port withheld, always distressed, 
Me howling winds drive devious; tempest tossed, 
Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost; 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
But oh! the thought that thou art safe and he, 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me." 

The principal pleasure that Cowper appeared to be 
capable of receiving, was indeed that which he derived 
from the happiness of others. Instead of being pro- 
voked to discontent and envy, by contrasting their com- 



70 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

forts with his own afflictions, there evidently was not a 
benefit that he knew to be enjoyed by others, which did 
not afford him sensible satisfaction ; not a suffering they 
endured that did not add to his pain. To the happiness 
of those who were privileged with opportunities of show- 
ing their esteem for him, he was most tenderly alive. 
The advancement of the knowledge of Christ in the 
world at large was always near his heart, and whatever 
concerned the general welfare of mankind was interest- 
ing to him, — secluded as he was from the public, and, 
in common, from religious society. In like manner, 
from his distant retreat, he viewed with painful sensa- 
tions the progress of infidelity and of sin in every shape. 
His love to God, though unassisted by a hope of Divine 
favor, was invariably manifested by an abhorrence of 
everything he thought dishonorable to the Most High, 
and a delight in all that tended to His glory. His sym- 
pathizing and admiring friends were fondly cherishing 
a hope that the diminution of his sufferings, which was 
apparent for several successive years, would at length 
result in his restoration to spiritual peace and joy. 
Although advanced in years, his health, by means of 
regular exercise and additional society, was not only 
preserved, but even seemed to improve notwithstanding 
the root of his bitterness still remained. Amidst flatter- 
ing expectations, some affecting events revived his dis- 



AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. 71 

tress in all its force, and plunged him again into distrac- 
tion and desperation. 

He declined all mental and bodily exertion, and re- 
jected all attempts at friendly consolation; he conceived 
his tenderest friends to be transformed by the powers of 
darkness into conspirators against his welfare. Expect- 
ing every hour to be his last, out of endless torments, 
nothing short of this horrible prospect could attract his 
notice for an instant. He refused day after day his 
necessary food, and imminent danger appeared of his 
speedy departure out of life in so dreadful a state of 
mind. But the Almighty, who had dashed the rising 
hopes of his friends, now mercifully disappointed his 
fears. 

His period of mortality was extended, and means were 
unexpectedly afforded for his removal from this neigh- 
borhood to a distant situation, where he could remain 
under the continual care of an amiable young kinsman, 
who, with a tenderness beyond the common limits of 
filial affection, watched over the precious remnant of his 
life. Much of it elapsed without a probability of his 
restoration to that state from which he had last fallen. 
His intellectual powers were so much affected by this 
relapse that he was only capable of attending to the most 
trivial subjects, even when writing, to have his thoughts 
diverted from despair. Local advantages, the solicitous 
attention of affectionate friends, and the indefatigable 



J 



72 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

assiduity of his only remaining companion, were at 
length rendered so far useful that he was enabled to re- 
sume his literary occupations, which were always, when 
pursued, a considerable though partial alleviation of his 
distress. 

Here let us pause, proceeds Mr. Greatheed, and 
look back upon the long, long period, during which he 
may be said to have w T alked in darkness and seen no 
light. It is more astonishing that the Lord, whom he 
had so eminently known, loved, and served, and whose 
honor he was so admirably qualified to promote, should 
leave him to sufferings so peculiarly severe; or that, 
through such an extent of time, he should continually 
preserve him, though destitute of hope and peace, from 
natural and violent dissolution ! To me the most sur- 
prising circumstance is, that without encouragement to 
seek for Divine protection and help, he should still have 
been kept from sin, and that although he viewed the 
Lord, in relation to himself, only as an implacable judge, 
he yet retained a holy reverence for his name, jealous 
regard for his glory, and an unlimited submission to his 
will. In every view, while we contemplate this "bush 
which burned with fire and was not consumed," we can- 
not but acknowledge that the judgments of God are 
unsearchable, and his ways past finding out. The sin- 
gularity of the Lord's dealings with our deceased 
neighbor, excited in the minds of all w T ho knew his 



AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. 73 

situation an anxious inquiry, "What will the end of these 
things be ?" It was universally concluded that some im- 
portant object would be accomplished by so unusual a 
train of sufferings. Some of his intimate connections 
were persuaded that he would be fully restored to health 
and comfort of mind, and would become instrumental 
in the Lord's hand "to bind up the broken hearted" by 
publicly declaring to others what God had done for his 
soul. There were few who did not confidently expect, 
perhaps none who did not earnestly hope, that the 
tedious nights of sorrow would terminate previous to his 
departure from this life, and that his latter end would 
be peace and joy. All indeed, I believe without excep- 
tion, who well knew this excellent man, were so fully 
convinced of his uprightness of heart before God, that 
in whatsoever state of mind he could close his eyes on 
earthly scenes, they could not doubt his entrance into 
glory through the atonement of our Lord Jesus Christ, 
which had been the only ground of his hope, and was 
still his desire. 

Yet they could not, without some degree of anxiety, 
look forward to the last scenes of life which his advanc- 
ing age evinced to be at hand. This issue of his whole 
warfare has but recently been decided; and the manner 
of it has not as yet publicly transpired. 

During the last year or two of Mr. Cowper's life, his 
health and state of mind appeared to be as much restored 



74 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

as for an equal time at any period during his long afflic- 
tions. 

Toward the close of the last winter he was, however, 
attacked by a bodily disorder which brought on decay. 
His young friend and relative, convinced that he would 
shortly exchange a world of infirmity and sorrow for a 
far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, repeat- 
edly endeavored to cheer him with the prospect, and to 
assure him of the happiness that awaited him. Still he 
refused to be comforted. "Oh, spare me! spare me! 
You know, you know it to be false !" was his only reply, 
with the same invincible despair to which he had so 
long been a prey. Early on the 25th of April, he sunk 
into a state of apparent insensibility, which might have 
been mistaken for a tranquil slumber, but that his eyes 
remained half open. His breath was regular though 
feeble, and his countenance and animal frame were per- 
fectly serene. In this state he continued for twelve 
hours, and then expired, without heaving his breath, 
April 25th, 1800. 

With anguish of heart he wrote on his window-shutter 
the day before he quitted Olney — 

"Me miserable! How could I escape 
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair, 
When death, earth, heaven, are all consigned to ruin, 
Whose friend was God, but God was not to aid me!" 



AUTHENTIC ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. 75 



HYMN BY WILLIAM COWPER. 

How blest thy creature is, God ! 

When with a single eye 
He views the lustre of thy word, 

The dayspring from on high. 

Through all the storms that veil the skies, 
And frown on earthly things, 

The sun of righteousness he eyes 
With healing in his wings. 

Struck by that light, the human heart 

A barren soil no more, 
Sends the sweet smell of grace abroad, 

Where serpents lurked before. 

The soul a dreary province once 

Of Satan's dark domain, 
Feels a new empire formed within, 

And owns a heavenly reign. 

The glorious orb, whose golden beams 

The fruitful years control 
Since first obedient to thy word, 

He started from the goal, 

Has cheered the nations with the joys 

His orient beams impart; 
But Jesus, 'tis thy light alone 

Can shine upon the heart. 



76 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 



ANOTHER BY THE SAME. 

Far from the world, Lord, I flee, 

From strife and tumult far, 
From scenes where Satan wages still 

His most successful war. 

The calm retreat, the silent shade 
With prayer and praise agree, 

And seen by thy sweet bounty made 
For those who follow thee. 

There if thy spirit touch the soul, 

And grace her mean abode, 
Oh! with what peace, and joy, and love, 

She communes with her God. 

Then like the nightingale she pours 

Her solitary lays; — 
Nor asks a witness of her song, 

Nor thirsts for human praise. 

Author and guardian of my life 

Sweet source of light divine 
And (all harmonious names in one), 

My Saviour, thou art mine. 

What thanks 1 owe thee, and what love ! 

A boundless, endless store, 
Shall echo through the realms above, 

When time shall be no more. 



ACCOUNT 



TREATMENT OF HIS HARES. 



BY WILLIAM COWPER. 



II 



i A-/--)-- 



! I • 



i 



■ L 




p. 79. 



THE HARES 



COWPER'S 
TREATMENT OF HIS HARES. 

[From the Gentleman's Magazine.] 



In the year 1774, being much indisposed both in mind 
and body, incapable of diverting myself either with com- 
pany or books, and yet in a condition that made some 
diversion necessary, I was glad of anything that would 
engage my attention without fatiguing it. The children 
of a neighbor of mine had a leveret given them for a 
plaything ; it was at that time about three months old. 
Understanding better how to tease the poor creature 
than to feed it, and soon becoming weary of their 
charge, they readily consented that their father, who 
saw it pining and growing leaner every day, should 
offer it for my acceptance. I was willing enough to 
take the prisoner under my protection, perceiving that, 



80 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

in the management of such an animal, and in the at- 
tempt to tame it, I shonld find just that sort of employ- 
ment which my case required. It was soon known 
among the neighbors that I was pleased with the pre- 
sent ; and the consequence was, that in a short time I 
had as many leverets offered to me as would have 
stocked a paddock. I undertook the care of three, 
which it is necessary that I should here distinguish by 
the names I gave them, — Puss, Tiney, and Bess. ]STot- 
withstanding the two feminine appellatives, I must in- 
form you that they were all males. Immediately com- 
mencing carpenter, I built them houses to sleep in ; each 
had a separate apartment, so contrived that their ordure 
would pass through the bottom of it; an earthen pan 
placed under each received whatsoever fell, which being 
duly emptied and washed, they were thus kept perfectly 
sweet and clean. In the daytime they had the range of 
a hall, and at night retired, each to his own bed, never 
intruding into that of another. 

Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, 
raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from 
my temples. He would suffer me to take him up, and 
to carry him about in my arms, and has more than once 
fallen asleep upon my knee. He was ill three days, dur- 
ing which time I nursed him, kept him apart from his fel- 
lows, that they might not molest him (for, like many 
other wild animals, they persecute one of their own 



cowper's treatment of his hares. 81 

species that is sick), and by constant care, and trying 
him with a variety of herbs, restored him to perfect health. 
No creature could be more grateful than my patient after 
his recovery ; a sentiment which he most significantly 
expressed by licking my hand, first the back of it, then 
the palm, then every finger separately, then between all 
the fingers, as if anxious to leave no part of it unsaluted ; 
a ceremony which he never performed but once again 
upon a similar occasion. Finding him extremely tractable, 
I made it my custom to carry him always after breakfast 
into the garden, where he hid himself generally under the 
leaves of a cucumber vine, sleeping or chewing the cud 
till evening : in the leaves also of that vine he found a 
favorite repast. I had not long habituated him to this 
taste of liberty, before he began to be impatient for the 
return of the time when he might enjoy it. He would 
invite me to the garden by drumming upon my knee, 
and by a look of such expression as it was not possible 
to misinterpret. If this rhetoric did not immediately suc- 
ceed, he would take the skirt of my coat between his 
teeth, and pull at it with all his force. Thus Puss might 
be said to be perfectly tamed, the shyness of his nature 
was done away, and on the whole it was visible by many 
symptoms, which I have not room to enumerate, that 
he was happier in human society than when shut up 
with his natural companions. 

Not so Tiney ; upon him the kindest treatment had 



82 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

not the least effect. He, too, was sick, and in his sickness 
had an equal share of my attention ; but if after his re- 
covery I took the liberty to stroke him, he would grunt, 
strike with his fore feet, spring forward, and bite. He 
was, however, very entertaining in his way ; even his 
surliness was matter of mirth ; and in his play he pre- 
served such an air of gravity, and performed his feats 
with such a solemnity of manner, that in him, too, I had 
an agreeable companion. 

Bess, who died soon after he was full grown and whose 
death was occasioned by his being turned into his box, 
which had been washed, while it was yet damp, was a 
hare of great humor . and drollery. Puss was tamed by 
gentle usage ! Tiney was not to be tamed at all : and 
Bess had a courage and confidence that made him tame 
from the beginning. I always admitted them into the 
parlor after supper, when the carpet affording their feet a 
firm hold, they would frisk and bound and play a thou- 
sand gambols, in which Bess, being remarkably strong 
and fearless, was always superior to the rest, and proved 
himself the Vestris of the party. One evening the cat, 
being in the room, had the hardiness to pat Bess upon 
the cheek, an indignity which he resented by drumming 
upon her back with such violence that the cat was happy 
to escape from under his paws, and hide herself. 

I describe these animals as having each a character of 
his own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances 



cowper's treatment of his hares. 83 

were so expressive of that character, that, when I looked 
only on the face of either, I immediately knew which it 
was. It is said that a shepherd, however numerous his 
flock, soon becomes so familiar with their features, that 
he can by that indication only, distinguish each from all 
the rest ; and yet, to a common observer, the difference 
is hardly perceptible. I doubt not that the same discrimi- 
nation in the cast of countenances would be discoverable 
in hares, and am persuaded that among a thousand of 
them, no two could be found exactly similar ; a circum- 
stance little suspected by those who have not had oppor- 
tunity to observe it. These creatures have a singular saga- 
city in discovering the minutest alteration that is made 
in the place to which they are accustomed, and instantly 
apply their nose to the examination of the new object. 
A small hole being burnt in the carpet, it was mended 
with a patch, and that patch in a moment underwent 
the strictest scrutiny. They seem, too, to be very much 
directed by the smell in the choice of their favorites ; to 
some persons, though they saw them daily, they could 
never be reconciled, and would even scream when they 
attempted to touch them ; but a miller coming in engaged 
their affections at once : his powdered coat had charms 
that were irresistible. It is no wonder that my intimate 
acquaintance with these specimens of the kind, has 
taught me to hold the sportsman's amusement in abhor- 
rence : he little knows what amiable creatures he perse- 



84 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

cutes, of what gratitude they are capable, how cheerful 
they are in their spirits, what enjoyment they have of 
life, and that, impressed as they seem with a peculiar 
dread of man, it is only because man gives them peculiar 
cause for it. 

That I may not be tedious, I will just give a short sum- 
mary of those articles of diet that suit them best. 

I take it to be a general opinion that they graze, but 
it is an erroneous one ; at least grass is not their staple ; 
they seem rather to use it medicinally, soon quitting it 
for leaves of almost any kind. Sowthistle, dandelion, 
and lettuce, are their favorite vegetables, especially the 
last. I discovered by accident that fine white sand is in 
great estimation with them ; I suppose as a digestive. 
It happened that I was cleaning a bird cage while the 
hares were with me : I placed a pot filled with such sand 
upon the floor, which, being at once directed to by a 
strong instinct, they devoured voraciously; since that 
time I have generally taken care to see them well sup- 
plied with it. They account green corn a delicacy, both 
blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom eat ; straw of 
any kind, especially wheat straw, is another of their dain- 
ties ; they will feed greedily upon oats, but if furnished 
with clean straw, never want them : it serves them also 
for a bed, and if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet and 
dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed require 
aromatic herbs, but will eat a small quantity of them 



cowper's treatment of his hares. 85 

with a great relish, and are particularly fond of the plant 
called musk : they seem to resemble sheep in this, that 
if their pasture he too succulent, they are very subject to 
the rot; to prevent which, I always made bread their 
principal nourishment, and, filling a pan with it cut into 
small squares, placed it every evening in their chambers, 
for they feed only at evening, and in the night ; during 
the winter, when vegetables were not to be procured, 
I mingled this mess of bread with shreds of carrots, 
adding to it the rind of apples cut extremely thin ; for, 
though they are fond of the paring, the apple itself dis- 
gusts them. These, however, not being a sufficient sub- 
stitute for the juice of summer herbs, they must at this 
time be supplied with water ; but so placed, that they 
cannot overset it into their beds. I must not omit, that 
occasionally they are much pleased with twigs of hawthorn 
and of the common brier, eating even the very wood 
when it is of considerable thickness. 

Bess, I have said, died young ; Tiney lived to be nine 
years old, and died at last, I have reason to think, of 
some hurt in his loins by a fall : Puss is still living, and 
has just completed his tenth year, discovering no signs 
of decay, nor even of age, except that he is grown more 
discreet and less frolicsome than he was. I cannot con- 
clude without observing, that I have lately introduced a 
dog to his acquaintance — a spaniel that had never seen a 
hare, to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it 



86 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

with great caution, but there was no real need of it. 
Puss discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis the least 
symptom of hostility. There is, therefore, it should seem, 
no natural antipathy between dog and hare, but the 
pursuit of the one occasions the flight of the other, and 
the dog pursues because he is trained to it ; they eat bread 
at the same time out of the same hand, and are in all 
respects sociable and friendly. 

I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I 
not add, that they have no ill scent belonging to them ; 
that they are indefatigably nice in keeping themselves 
clean, for which purpose nature has furnished them with 
a brush under each foot ; and that they are never infested 
by any vermin. 

May 28, 1784. 

MEMORANDUM FOUND AMONG MR. COWPER'S PAPERS. 

Tuesday, March 9, 1786. 

This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years eleven 
months. He died between twelve and one at noon, of 
mere old age, and apparently without pain. 



DESCRIPTION 



WESTON PARK, 



ETC. 



WESTON PARK, ETC. 



" Scenes must be beautiful which, daily seen, 
Please daily, and whose novelty survives 
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years." 

A survey, though in miniature, of the scenes that occu- 
pied the attention, and gave matter to the pen, of the 
immortal Cowper, must be gratifying to every lover of 
his muse. It was cause of considerable pleasure to us, 
while literally re-treading the footsteps of a character so 
illustrious, to observe most of the scenery he has described 
remaining, without material alteration, through the lapse 
of more than twenty years. But our design, in this un- 
dertaking, being to rescue from obscurity, and preserve, 
from the dilapidating hand of time, resemblances of every 
favored subject in his rural walks, it was a circumstance 
of regret to discover in our research, that the places 
described by Cowper, unconnected with the demesne of 
George Courtenay, Esq., had, in many instances, suffered 
considerable change. 



90 COWPEK ILLUSTRATED. 

The Mill, referred to in the fifth book of The Task, is 
entirely demolished, and, but for a few scattered stones, 
the place where it stood would be forgotten. It was 
situated in a meadow at the foot of Clifton Hill, near 
Olney, and, from the romantic beauty of the surrounding 
scenery, could not escape the discriminating eye of 
Cowper. 

In the latter editions of Cowper's Poems, a piece is 
introduced, called The Poplars, the destruction of which 
he deplores. They may still be traced on the ground 
by remaining shoots; but when we conceive that the 
vacuum which appears was formerly occupied by a race 
of noble trees, only two of which remain, we lament, 
with the poet, the havoc of the axe, and take up his plaint, 
when he says, 

The poplars are felled . . . adieu to the shade, 
And the whisp'ring sound of the cool colonnade; 
The winds play no longer, nor sing in their leaves; 
Nor Ouse on its surface their image receives. 

They stood near Lavendon Mill, about two miles from 
Olney, on the banks of the Ouse, which, in that place, 
assumes a majestic breadth, bordered on each side by flags 
of luxuriant growth, and reflecting, in its meandering 
course, the various beauties that surround it; among 
which the poplars were once pre-eminent. 



DESCRIPTION OF WESTON PARK. 91 

Near Kilnwick Wood, about two miles from Olney, in 
a northwest direction, mentioned in the Needless Alarm, 

A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd, 
Runs in the bottom, and divides the field ; 
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, 
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; 
And where the land slopes to its wat'ry bourn, 
Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn. 

This pit, though still to be seen, is nearly filled up. 
Our design was to represent it, but, being in the vicinity 
of trees, so remote from beauty, as those Cowper has 
noticed, we found it impossible to do it without the 
accompaniment of objects mutilated and bare. 

Thus much we trust will be sufficient to exonerate us 
from the charge of omissions, and, we embrace, with 
pleasure, the opportunity remaining, which is still con- 
siderable, to illustrate such a poet as Cowper, and, in 
particular, such a poem as The Task. 

When Cowper wrote The Task, he resided at Olney, 
and it appears by the arrangement of his subjects, his 
most frequent walk to Weston was through the fields. 
We propose, therefore, to follow him with as little devia- 
tion as possible in his ramble ; and, as there are many 
who may wish to gratify themselves with a sight of the 
places to which he has given celebrity, who are unac- 



92 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

quainted with a way so indirect, we shall, for their accom- 
modation, return by the road, and by this proceeding, 
give a ready clue to every object. 

From the town of Olney, westward, over three fields, 
the ascent is gradual to the eminence referred to by the 
poet in these lines, 

How oft upon yon eminence our pace 

Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne 

The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew. 

From this elevation is seen a prospect extensive in 
every direction but the north, which is bounded by a 
quick hedge on rising ground. A little to the eastward 
may be discovered an elegant mansion, the residence of 
John Higgins, Esq., near the village of Turvey. In the 
horizon behind is Steventon, in Bedfordshire; further 
east stands the " square tower" of Clifton Church, near 
which is Clifton House, the seat of Alexander Small, Esq., 
and, ranging still eastward, the prospect is bounded by 
Clifton Wood; till, due east, is seen the "tall spire" of 
Olney Church and a considerable part of the town. To 
the southward is the pleasant village of Emberton, on the 
right of which appears, when the weather is clear, Bow- 
brick Hill, and the church on its summit, at the distance 
of nearly fourteen miles. Due south, in an extensive 
valley, appear the devious windings of the river Ouse, 



DESCRIPTION OF WESTON PARK. 93 

whose mazy and deceptive course assumes the semblance 
of various streams : the meadows are likewise intersected 
by dykes, cut for the purpose of draining floods, which 
give the land, even in times of drought, a delightful 
verdure. 

On the banks of the Ouse stand the trees which Cowper 
mistook for elms. A little to the west, across the valley, 
on the ascent, appears the magnificent mansion of Wil- 
liam Praed, Esq., called Tyringham House; to the south- 
west is Weston House, the seat of George Courtenay, 
Esq., embosomed in the trees of the park, which, at this 
distance, has the appearance of a wood. "West-southwest 
may be seen the Alcove, and near it, on a steep declivity, 
the Colonnade, below which is the Peasant's Nest. Dae 
west is Kilnwick Wood, and behind it, though not seen, 
the wood of Dingle-derry . 

From the eminence, we descend into a valley, and pass 
the place where the peasant formerly dipped "his bowd 
into the weedy ditch," and, climbing the ascent, arrive 
" upon the green-hill top," where is situated 



94 

THE PEASANT'S NEST. 

This farm-house is on a small estate belonging to a 
Mr. Chapman ; it was completely obscured by the elms 
that surround it, only three of which now remain, the 
rest having been felled, about four or five years since, 
for the purpose of defraying the expense of enclosing 
certain pastures allotted to Mr. Chapman in the lordship 
of Emberton. The trees may still be traced on the 
ground by their remaining stumps and the abundant 
shoots rising from them. The house, since Cowper wrote, 
has been altered, by removing the thatch, and covering 
the roof with tiles ; and the inconvenience it was subjected 
to, from the want of water, has been obviated by sinking 
a well ; the habitation, by this means, has been rendered 
more desirable than when he first discovered it. This 
place is admirably calculated for the indulgence of con- 
templation, being completely secluded 

From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear 
In village or in town. 

Here maybe possessed the " poet's treasure, silence," 
and here indulged " the dreams of fancy, tranquil and 
secure." Its nearest neighborhood is Weston House, at 
the distance of about half a mile, though not within 
sight — the village of Emberton being the only habitable 
spot in view : this may be seen from the front of the 




p. 95. 



THE PEASANT'S NEST. 

"Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine." 

Task, Book 1. 



DESCRIPTION OF WESTON PARK. 97 

cottage, through a narrow vale, across Weston Park : the 
bold swell of sloping hills in the foreground, contrasted 
with the softened tones of distant landscape, richly varie- 
gated, forms an effect, beyond description, pleasing and 
picturesque. This view is taken from the high walk in 
the Park, the only place from which it can be seen to ad- 
vantage. From this point the house is in part obscured 
by the remaining elms, on the left, which retiring in per- 
spective from the eye, their foliage is united, and they 
appear like a single tree : the garden, shrubbery, and a 
spreading walnut tree, enclose it on the right, and backed 
by a rising woodland scene, delightfully diversified, it 
still has pretensions to the appellation given it by 
Cowper. 

Eising west, from the Peasant's Fest, we pass through 
a narrow plantation, under the shade of yews, firs, and 
pines, from which, entering an avenue, between two rows 
of well-grown chestnuts, " a length of colonnade invites 
us;" and, while enjoying its welcome shade, we obtain 
a view of Weston House ; a beautiful, though transient, 
peep, it being soon obscured by intervening foliage. 

The descent, through the Colonnade, is aptly described 
by Cowper, the fall of the ground being extremely pre- 
cipitant and abrupt. At the bottom, passing a little gate, 
we come immediately upon 



98 



THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 

This bridge was built about sixty years since, by Mr. 
John Huggins, for Sir Robert Throckmorton, the grand- 
father of its present possessor, for the purpose of keeping 
up a piece of water in the Park : it spans a deep brook, 
forming a scene remarkable for its wild and romantic 
beauty, which, after winding its latent course along the 
bottom of a woody vale, meanders through the Park, 
and crosses the road from Olney to Northampton, at a 
place called Overs Brook. The willows near the bridge, 
whose pendent boughs "bathed in the limpid stream," 
are cut down, but their site is still marked by rising 
shoots. 

The bridge terminates a grove of trees, which fills the 
valley, bordering the northeastern extremity of the Park : 
here is seen 

" The ash, far-stretching his umbrageous arm ; 
Of deeper green the elm ; and deeper still, 
Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak." 

Ascending from the Rustic Bridge, along the northern 
boundary of the Park, a path, under the canopy of 
spreading oaks and elms, leads to the Alcove. This walk 
is alluded to by Cowper in the beginning of the sixth 




THE IV U S T 1 C BRIDGE. 



.... "Upon a rustic bridge, 
We pass a gulf." 



Tusk, Book 1. 



DESCRIPTION OF WESTON PARK. 101 

book of the Task : it commanded a view of Emberton 
Church across the vale, and from hence he heard "the 
music of the village bells," but from the increased growth 
of the trees, that stand on the high walk in the Park, the 
prospect is now nearly excluded. The ascent is difficult, 
being thickly tufted by mole-hills, incrusted by verdant 
moss, and mingled with flowery thyme, the scattered 
sweets of which, regaling the scent, deceive the labor of 
the stumbling walk ; for here the firmest footstep is con- 
tinually eluded by the yielding earth. On the summit 
stands 



102 



THE ALCOVE. 

This structure is a sexagon, of a light and graceful 
form, composed of wood : it was erected, about fifty years 
ago, by the same person who built the Rustic Bridge. 
This pleasant retreat has been deserted by the family, 
on account of a fatal accident which happened to the 
builder's son ; who, being employed, about twenty years 
after its erection, in painting the roof, fell from it, and 
was killed on the spot. The painful reflections which 
occurred on every visit to the scene of this catastrophe, 
having induced the family so long to avoid it, it begins 
to assume evident symptoms of decay,* which is much to 
be regretted, as it forms a noble ornament to the Park, 
and affords a resting-place both seasonable and conve- 
nient, in the face of a delightful and extensive prospect. 

The view we have represented is in a direction south- 
east from the Alcove : in the centre is seen the termina- 
tion of the grove, commencing at the Rustic Bridge, and 
the brook just emerging from the shady vale : over the 
grove may be discerned the tops of firs and pines, which 

* Since the first publication of " Cowper Illustrated," the Alcove has been 
taken down and rebuilt. 




p. 103. 



VIEW FllOM THE ALCOVE. 



.... "Now roves the eye, 
And posted on this speculative height 
Exults in its command." 

Task, Book 1. 







p. 106. 



THE ALCOVE, FROM THE AVENUE. 



'• How airy and how light the graceful arch." 



Task, Book 1 



DESCRIPTION OF WESTON PARK. 107 

form the plantation between the Colonnade and Peasant's 
Nest ; and rising from the foliage like a lofty obelisk, is 
Olney spire, beyond which are the hills in the vicinity of 
Clifton ; the row of distant trees, on the eminence, is the 
high walk, from which is seen the Peasant's Nest. 

The Alcove, being open in three divisions, presents as 
many distinct, though not equally extensive, prospects : 
through the middle compartment on the left, the Park 
appears finely adorned with clumps of noble trees, and, 
among the various foliage, part of Weston House is visi- 
ble ; the Avenue presents itself in front : through the 
opening, on the right, is seen the western boundary of 
the Park, the walls of which are judiciously excluded by 
plantations. 

Quitting the Alcove, and proceeding to the Avenue, 
the declivity is 

" Sharp and short, 

And such the re-ascent ; between them weeps 

A little Naiad her impoverished urn 

All summer long, which winter fills again." 

This little Naiad is nothing more than a narrow chan- 
nel to drain the hollow ; and we cannot repress our admi- 
ration of the unbounded powers of figurative poetry, 
which can raise the minutest trifle to the appearance of 
dignity and consequence. 



108 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

A few paces on the ascent stood a wall, which was 
continued across the grounds from east to west; the 
foundations may, in many places, he discovered ; it served 
as an enclosure for cattle on one side, and, on the other, 
towards the house, for deer, with which the Park was 
formerly stocked. The entrance from one enclosure to 
the other, is thus described by the poet, who was favored 
by Sir John Throckmorton with a key, that he might, 
at all times, obtain ready access : 

" The folded gates would bar my progress now, 
But that the lord of this enclosed demesne, 
Communicative of the good he owns, 
Admits me to a share." 

Having gained the acclivity, we enter the Avenue, 
under the uniting branches of lofty limes, which form a 

" Graceful arch ; 

Yet awful as the consecrated roof, 
Re-echoing pious anthems ! while, beneath, 
The chequered earth seems restless as a flood 
Brushed by the wind." 

In the middle of this Avenue, on turning back, is seen 
the Alcove, which being painted with a lively white, and 
enclosed on either side with darksome yews, presents the 
pleasing and striking effect which we have endeavored 
to represent. 




p. no. 



THE WILDERNESS, FROM THE GROVE. 

" Here, unmolested, through whatever sign 
The sun proceeds, I wander." 

Task, Book VI. 



Ill 



THE WILDERNESS. 

From the Avenue we enter the Wilderness by an ele- 
gant gate, constructed after the Chinese manner. On 
the left is the statue of a lion, finely carved, in a recum- 
bent posture : this is placed on a basement, at the end 
of a grassy walk, which is shaded by yews and elms, 
mingled with the drooping foliage of the laburnum, and 
adorned with wreaths of flaunting woodbine ; the walk 
forms a border to the Wilderness on the northern side, 
and is ornamented with two handsome urns, one of which 
we have represented. On its base is engraved an epitaph, 
to Neptune, a favorite dog of Sir John Throckmorton's, 
written by Cowper, which we have transcribed. 

Here lies one, who never drew 
Blood himself, yet many slew ; 
Gave the gun its aim, and figure 
Made in field, yet ne'er pulled trigger. 
Armed men have gladly made 
Him their guide, and him obeyed ; 
At his signified desire, 
Would advance, present, and fire. 
Stout he was, and large of limb, 
Scores have fled at sight of him ; 
And to all this fame he rose, 
By only following his nose. 



112 COWPEK ILLUSTRATED. 

Neptune was he called ; not he 
Who controls the boistYous sea : 
But of happier command, 
Neptune of the furrowed land; 
And, your wonder, vain, to shorten, 
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton. 

The other is inscribed to a Spaniel, as follows : 

Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, 

Here moulders one whose bones some honor claim : 

No sycophant, although of spaniel race, 

And though no hound, a martyr to the chase. 

Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, 

Your haunts no longer echo to his voice. 

This record of his fate, exulting view, 

He died, worn out with vain pursuit of you. 

Yes ; the indignant shade of Fop replies, 

And, worn with vain pursuits, man also dies. 

Opposite to the entrance is a winding path, leading to 




p. 114. 



THE TEMPLE IN THE WILDERN 



.... "Whose well-rolled walks, 

With curvature of slow and easy sweep, 

give ample space 

To narrow bounds." 

Task, Book J. 



115 



THE GOTHIC TEMPLE. 

In the front of the Temple is a hexagon plat, sur- 
rounded with a beautiful variety of evergreens, flowering 
shrubs, and elms, whose stems are covered with a mantle 
of venerable ivy. In the centre of the plat stands a 
majestic acacia. On the left, a serpentine walk, under 
a sable canopy of spreading yews, winds to an elegant 
vista, bordered on either side with laurels, syringas, 
lilacs, and woodbines, overhung with the golden clusters 
of the laburnum, interspersed with branching elms, and 
beeches entwined with circling ivy. At the end of 
the vista stands a bust of Homer. This bust was in the 
possession of Cowper, when he resided at Weston, and 
stood in the shrubbery behind his garden ; and, it may 
be seen, that the bard it represents ranked high in his 
estimation, by a Greek couplet which he wrote on its 
base, accompanied with a translation by Mr. Hayley, 
as follows : 

The sculptor nameless, though once dear to fame ; 
But this man bears an everlasting name. 



116 C0WPER ILLUSTRATED. 

Near the bust is a deeply-shaded, winding path, that 
leads through the Wilderness, and brings us to the Grove, 
whence we pass a handsome gate to the village of Wes- 
ton, about the centre of which on the right, is 




p. 118. 



WES TON LODGE. 

The residence of the late William Cowper Esq. 



119 



WESTON LODGE. 

This house is built of stone, showing a handsome and 
extensive front, ornamented by vines and jasmines, which 
entwine their spreading branches, and overhang the win- 
dows in verdant wreaths. It commands from the front 
a prospect into an orchard planted with well-grown trees, 
and the village, being straight, on either side may be seen 
its extremities, bounded at one end by the church, and, 
at the other, by the gate above-mentioned. The inside 
is roomy and convenient : it has a good kitchen-garden, 
and an orchard, which was formerly Cowper's Shrubbery; 
but the pursuits of its present possessor differing, in 
some degree, from those of the poet, every appearance 
of this kind is obliterated, except that an officious flower 
occasionally rears its head, and in tacit terms, upbraids 
the destroyers of such a scene. This little labyrinth was 
much admired, being laid out in the most pleasing style 
and ornamented with several summer seats, placed near 
the borders of serpentine gravel walks, shaded and adorn- 
ed by the mingling beauties of various flowering shrubs. 



120 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

Returning to the Park from Weston, on the left, we 
enter the Grove, 

Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms 
We may discern the thresher at his task. 

And, under the reviving influence of their shades, we 
view the northwest front of 




p. 122. 



WESTON HOUSE, FROM THE GROV 
The seat of George Courteuay, Esq. 



123 



WESTON HOUSE. 

This house stands on the south side of the Northamp- 
ton Road, and commands a most extensive prospect. 
It is extremely irregular in its appearance, having been 
built at different periods. The front we have represented 
is the newest part of the edifice, and was erected by Sir 
Robert Throckmorton about the beginning of the last cen- 
tury. In the windows of the gallery are some coats of 
arms, in stained glass, with the date 1572 ; but some 
parts of the house appear to be of an earlier age, and 
were probably erected several centuries antecedent to the 
above period. 

This estate came into the possession of the present 
family, towards the middle of the fifteenth century, by 
the marriage of Sir Thomas Throckmorton, knight, with 
the daughter of Robert Olney, of Weston. The Park 
was considerably improved by the grandfather of the pre- 
sent possessor. It was laid out under the direction of 
Mr. Brown, then famous as a landscape gardener, who, 
availing himself of the advantages of nature, by the aid 



124 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

of art, lias produced, in the grounds of "Weston Park, a 
lasting monument of his taste. Continuing our walk 
to Olney, at a short distance from the house, the view we 
have given presents itself. In the centre, overhanging 
a boat-house belonging to Mr. Courtenay, stands a clus- 
ter of poplars, which Cowper calls 




p. 126. 



THE ELMS. 



. . . . "There, tast rooted in their bank, 
Stand, never overlooked, our favorite elms 
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut." 



Tusk, Book 1. 



127 



THE ELMS 

Surrounding "the herdsman's solitary hut." In com- 
pliance with our intention to illustrate the poet, we have 
retained the name he has conferred, though we were 
convinced, from ocular demonstration, it was erroneous ; 
and have also received a communication from Mr. Cour- 
tenay,* who observes, that Cowper wrote the passage in 
the Task, which refers to these trees, under the influence 
of a mistake, and he had often told him of the circum- 
stance. The trees stand on a broad level of low land, 
remote from any object of equal magnitude, and are, in 
every direction, prominent and conspicuous. The accom- 
panying scenery is charmingly described by the poet in 
the following lines : — 

Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 
Of spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er, 
Conducts the eye along its sinuous course, 
Delighted 



* We take this opportunity to acknowledge our obligation to this gentle- 
man, and several others of the town of Olney, who favored us with some 
important information, and paid a kind and ready attention to our inquiries. 



128 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, 
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale 
The sloping land recedes into the clouds. 

Proceeding still towards Olney, we come to the Spin- 
nie, or 




r.i3o 



THE SHRUBBERY. 

"The saint or moralist should tread 
The moss-grown alley." 



Cowper. 



131 



SHRUBBERY. 

The entrance to this retired spot is by a gate on the 
left side of the road, whence a path conducts through 
the windings of a lonely alley, shaded by the stately 
sycamore and spreading oak, diversified with fir, beech, 
lime, and elm, to an ampler space, enclosed on either side 
by the pensive yew. Here stands the Moss House. 
This delightful retreat Cowper has celebrated in some 
verses of exquisite pathos, written, as he observes, " in a 
time of affliction;" and, surely, every reader must feel 
for the unhappy bard, who, when speaking of the beau- 
ties of this spot, says, they are such as 

Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, 
And please, if anything could please. 

And though at this time the peculiar sensations of his 
mind permitted him no enjoyment whatever, yet, in hap- 
pier moments, this lowly roof was often honored with 
his presence; and a few lines of his composition, which 
he caused to be painted on a board, and placed in the 
Moss House, may give a full idea of the altered state of 
his mind. 

Here, free from riot's hated noise, 
Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys, 



132 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

A book or friend bestows ; 
Far from the storms that shake the great, 
Contentment's gale shall fan my seat, 

And sweeten my repose. 



This board being stolen, Cowper substituted another, 
with the following lines from the sixth book of the 
Task:— 

No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 

Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, 

Charms more than silence. Meditation here 

May think down hours to moments. Here the heart 

May give a useful lesson to the head, 

And Learning wiser grow without his books. 

Pursuing our walk, we proceed through what remains 
of this sequestered alley, whose devious moss-grown path 
is bordered by flowering shrubs, which fill the air with 
their fragrance ; while, from the pendent boughs above, 
the ear is saluted with the melody of warbling birds, pro- 
ducing an effect at once solemn and delightful. 

Returning by the way we entered, near the gate is 
seen 




p. 134. 



OLNEY CHURCH. 



"The tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells 
Just undulates upon the listening ear." 

Task, Book J. 



135 



OLKEY CHUKCH. 

Continuing our walk towards the town of Olney, hav- 
ing the Shrubbery on the left, we arrive at Overs Brook, 
which crosses the road like a rivulet, but may be passed 
over by a wooden bridge. The prospect from the road 
is extensive, commanding a view of the meadows, inter- 
sected by the windings of the Ouse, the village of Em- 
berton, and a range of richly-cultivated distant lands di- 
vided by "hedge-row beauties numberless." By the 
best traditionary accounts, Weston was formerly a ham- 
let belonging to Olney ; but Overs Brook being, in times 
of flood, so swelled as to make it dangerous, and almost 
impracticable to pass, either to perform worship or to 
bury the dead, the priests made application and obtained 
leave of the Pope to build a church at Weston ; since 
which they have been separate parishes. 

At what time Olney Church was built is uncertain, 
none of the church records being dated earlier than 150 
or 160 years back ; though on repairing the church, about 
two years ago, on one of the beams of the roof was found 
the following inscription : " This beam was laid up by 
Ben Marriot and Michael Hinde, churchwardens, July 
17, 1718 ; and 700 years from its first building." This 

8 



136 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

date probably alludes to the first erection of a church at 
Olney ; as the style of the present building is that com- 
monly termed Gothic, and must therefore be of modern 
origin. On entering the town and turning to the left, we 
come to the market-place : at the lower end is situated 
the house in which Cowper resided. This is a large, 
red-brick building, and has not anything, either in its 
situation or appearance, to recommend it ; being on the 
skirts of a place called Silver Und, a name as significant in 
Olney as that of St. Catharine is in London. Indeed, the 
town of Olney is by no means a desirable spot ; lying in a 
bottom, it is subject to frequent fogs and damps, which are 
extremely pernicious, and occasion aguish and rheumatic 
disorders. Cowper rallies his own situation here, at the 
time of a flood, in a humorous epistle to Lady Austen, 
then at Clifton, which may be seen in Hayley's Account 
of his Life. 

Having completed our tour, by returning to the town, 
we proceed to 






OLNEY BRIDGE. 



"That with its wearisome but needful length 
Bestrides the wintry flood." 

Tasl; Boole IV. 



139 



OLKEY BEIDGE. 

This structure is noticed in the opening of the fourth 
book of the Task : 

" Hark, 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge." 

It consists of twenty-four arches, of various forms, and 
placed at irregular distances, bestriding the whole width 
of the valley, which, when completely overflowed, pre- 
sents an expanse of water grand beyond description. 
The bridge has been broken down many times by the 
rushing current, which accidents have occasioned much 
altercation between the inhabitants of Olney and Ember- 
ton : as the bridge, uniting the parishes, was thought to 
be a joint concern, but it has lately been decided in a 
court of law, that it belongs exclusively to Olney, and, 
consequently, all the expense of repairs is thrown upon 
that parish. This view was taken in the meadows near 
the town's end, on the side next Weston : in the distance 
is seen the " embattled tower' of Emberton Church, and 
part of the village emerging from the trees. 

But imitative strokes can do no more 

Than please the eye. Sweet nature, every sense ! 

The air salubrious of her lofty hills, 

The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, 

And music of her woods, — no works of man 

May rival these. 



A 
SKETCH OF THE CHARACTER 

AND AX 

ACCOUNT OF THE LAST ILLNESS 

OF THE LATE 

REV. JOHN COWPEE, A.M., 

WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE WITH JOY, MARCH 20, 1770. 
WRITTEN BY HIS BROTHER, 

THE -LATE WILLIAM COWPER/ESQ. 

FAITHFULLY TRANSCRIBED FROM HIS ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT 

BY JOHN NEWTON. 



CHARACTER AND LAST ILLNESS 



REV. JOHN COWPER, A.M. 



As soon as it pleased God, after a long and sharp 
season of conviction, to visit me with the consolations of 
his grace, it became one of my chief concerns, that my 
relations might be made partakers of the same mercy. 
In the first letter I wrote to my brother,* I took occa- 
sion to declare what God had done for my soul, and am 
not conscious that from that period down to his last 
illness I wilfully neglected an opportunity of engaging 
him, if it were possible, in conversation of a spiritual 
kind. When I left St. Albans and went to visit him at 
Cambridge, my heart being full of the subject, I poured 
it out before him without reserve ; in all my subsequent 
dealings with him, so far as I was enabled, took care to 

* " I had a brother once." &c. The Task, Book II. 



144 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

show tliat I had received, not merely a set of notions, 
but a real impression of the truths of the gospel. 

At first I found him ready enough to talk with me 
upon these subjects ; sometimes he would dispute, but 
always without heat or animosity ; and sometimes would 
endeavor to reconcile the difference of our sentiments, 
by supposing that, at the bottom, we were both of a 
mind and meant the same thing. 

He was a man of a most candid and ingenuous spirit, 
his temper remarkably sweet, and in his behavior to me 
he had always manifested an uncommon affection. His 
outward conduct, so far as fell under my notice, or I 
could learn it by the report of others, was perfectly 
decent and unblamable. There was nothing vicious 
in any part of his practice, but, being of a studious, 
thoughtful turn, he placed his chief delight in the 
acquisition of learning, and made such acquisitions in it 
that he had but few rivals in that of a classical kind. 
He was critically skilled in the Latin, Greek, and 
Hebrew languages, was beginning to make himself 
master of the Syriac, and perfectly understood the French 
and Italian, the latter of which he could speak fluently. 
These attainments, however, and many others in the 
literary way, he lived heartily to despise, not as useless 
when sanctified and employed in the service of God, but 
when sought after for their own sake, and with a view 
to the praise of man. Learned however as he was, he 



. REV. JOHN COW PER. 145 

was easy and cheerful in his conversation, and entirely 
free from the stiffness which is generally contracted by 
men devoted to such pursuits. 

Thus we spent about two years, conversing as occa- 
sion offered, and we generally visited each other once or 
twice a week, as long as I continued at Huntingdon, 
upon the leading truths of the gospel. By this time, 
however, he began to be more reserved ; he w 7 ould hear 
me patiently, but never reply; and this I found, upon his 
own confession afterward, was the effect of a resolution 
he had taken in order to avoid disputes, and to secure 
the continuance of that peace which had always sub- 
sisted between us. When our family removed to Olney, 
our intercourse became less frequent. ¥e exchanged 
an annual visit, and, whenever he came among us, he 
observed the same conduct, conforming to all our cus- 
toms, attending family worship with us, and heard the 
preaching, received civilly w T hatever passed in conversa- 
tion upon the subject, but adhered strictly to the rule he 
had prescribed to himself, never remarking upon or ob- 
jecting to anything he heard or saw. This, through the 
goodness of his natural temper, he was enabled to carry 
so far, that, though some things unavoidably happened 
which we feared would give him offence, he never took 
any; for it was not possible to offer him the pulpit, nor 
when Mr. Newton was with us once at the time of family 
prayer, could we ask my brother to officiate, though, 



146 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

being himself a minister, and one of our own family for 
the time, the office seemed naturally to fall into his 
hands. 

In September 1769, I learned by letters from Cam- 
bridge that he was dangerously ill. I set out for that 
place the day after I received them, and found him as ill 
as I expected. He had taken cold on his return from a 
journey into Wales ; and, lest he should be laid up at a 
distance from home, had pushed forward as far as he 
could from Bath with a fever upon him. 

Soon after his arrival at Cambridge he discharged, 
unknown to himself, such a prodigious quantity of 
blood, that the physician ascribed it only to the strength 
of his constitution that he was still alive ; and assured 
me, that if the discharge should be repeated, he must 
inevitably die upon the spot. In this state of imminent 
danger, he seemed to have no more concern about his 
spiritual interests than when in perfect health. His 
couch was strewed with volumes of plays, to which he 
had frequent recourse for amusement. I learned indeed 
afterwards, that, even at this time, the thoughts of God 
and eternity would often force themselves upon his 
mind ; but not apprehending his life to be in danger, and 
trusting in the morality of his past conduct, he found it 
no difficult matter to thrust them out again. 

As it pleased God that he had no relapse, he presently 
began to recover strength ; and in ten days' time I left 



REV. JOHN COW PER. 147 

him so far restored that he could ride many miles with- 
out fatigue, and had every symptom of returning health. 
It is probable, however, that though his recovery seemed 
perfect, this illness was the means which God had ap- 
pointed to bring down his strength in the midst of his 
journey, and to hasten on the malady which proved 
his last. 

On the 16th of February, 1770, 1 was again summoned 
to attend him, by letters which represented him as so ill 
that the physician entertained but little hopes of his re- 
covery. I found him afflicted with asthma and dropsy, 
supposed to be the effect of an imposthume in his liver. 
He was, however, cheerful when I first arrived, expressed 
great joy at seeing me, thought himself much better than 
he had been, and seemed to flatter himself with hopes 
that he should be well again. My situation at this time 
was truly distressing. I learned from the physician, 
that, in this instance, as in the last, he was in much 
greater danger than he suspected. He did not seem to 
lay his illness at all to heart, nor could I find by his con- 
versation that he had one serious thought. As often as 
a suitable occasion offered, when we were free from com- 
pany and interruption, I endeavored to give a spiritual 
turn to the discourse ; and, the day after my arrival, 
asked his permission to pray with him, to which he 
readily consented. I renewed my attempts in this way 
as often as I could, though without any apparent sue- 



148 COWPEK ILLUSTRATED. 

cess : still lie seemed as careless and unconcerned as 
ever; yet I could not but consider his willingness in 
this instance as a token for good, and observed with 
pleasure, that though at other times he discovered no 
mark of seriousness, yet when I spoke to him of the 
Lord's dealings with myself, he received what I said 
with affection, would press my hand, and look kindly at 
me, and seemed to love me the better for it. 

On the 21st of the same month he had a violent fit of 
the asthma, which seized him when he rose, about an 
hour before noon, and lasted all the day. His agony 
was dreadful. Having never seen any person afflicted 
in the same way, I could not help fearing that he would 
be suffocated ; nor was the physician himself without 
fears of the same kind. This day the Lord was very 
present with me and enabled me, as I sat by the poor 
sufferer's side, to wrestle for a blessing upon him. I 
observed to him, that though it had pleased God to visit 
him with great afflictions, yet mercy was mingled with 
the dispensation. I said, "You have many friends, 
who love you, and are willing to do all they can to serve 
you ; and so perhaps have others in the like circum- 
stances ; but it is not the lot of every sick man, how 
much soever he may be beloved, to have a friend that 
can pray for him." He replied, "That is true, and I 
hope God will have mercy upon me." His love for me 
from this time became very remarkable; there was a 



REV. JOHN COWPER. 149 

tenderness in it more than was merely natural ; and lie 
generally expressed it by calling for blessings upon me 
in the most affectionate terms, and with a look and 
manner not to be described. At night, when he was 
quite worn out with the fatigue of laboring for breath, 
and could get no rest, his asthma still continuing, he 
turned to me and said, with a melancholy air, " Brother, 
I seem to be marked out for misery ; you know some 
people are so." That moment I felt my heart enlarged, 
and such a persuasion of the love of God towards him 
was wrought in my soul, that I replied with confidence, 
and as if I had authority given me to say it, " But that 
is not your case; you are marked out for mercy." 
Through the whole of this most painful dispensation, he 
was blessed with a degree of patience and resignation 
to the will of God, not always seen in the behavior of 
established Christians under sufferings so great as his. 
I never heard a murmuring word escape him ; on the 
contrary, he would often say, when his pains were most 
acute, " I only wish it may please God to enable me to 
suffer without complaining ; I have no right to com- 
plain." Once he said, with a loud voice, "Let thy rod 
and thy staff support and comfort me ;" and, " Oh that 
it were with me as in times past, when the candle of the 
Lord shone upon my tabernacle !" One evening, when 
I had been expressing my hope that the Lord would 
show him mercy, he replied, " I hope he will ; I am sure 



150 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

I pretend to nothing." Many times lie spoke of himself 
in terms of the greatest self-abasement, which I cannot 
now particularly remember. I thought I could discern, 
in these expressions, the glimpses of approaching day, 
and have no doubt at present but that the Spirit of God 
was gradually preparing him, in a way of true humilia- 
tion, for that bright display of gospel grace which he 
was soon after pleased to afford him.* 

On Saturday the 10th of March, about three in the 
afternoon, he suddenly burst into tears, and said, with a 
loud cry, " Oh, forsake me not!" I went to his bed- 
side, when he grasped my hand, and presently by his 
eyes and countenance, I found that he was in prayer. 
Then turning to me, he said, " Oh, brother, I am full of 
what I could say to you." The nurse asked him if he 
would have any hartshorn, or lavender. He replied, 
"None of these things will serve my purpose." I said, 
"But I know what would, my dear, don't I?" He 
answered, "You do, brother." 

Having continued some time silent, he said, " Behold 
I create new heavens, and a new earth," — then, after a 
pause, " Ay, and he is able to do it too." 

I left him for about an hour, fearing lest he should 
fatigue himself with talking, and because my surprise 
and joy were so great that I could hardly bear them. 

* There is a beautiful illustration of this sudden and happy change in 
Cowper's poem entitled " Hope." 



REV. JOHN COW PER. 151 

"When I returned, he threw his arms about my neck, 
and leaning his head against mine, he said, "Brother, if 
I live, you and I shall be more like one another than 
we have been. But whether I live, or live not, all is 
w T ell, and will be so ; I know it will ; I have felt that 
which I never felt before ; and am sure that God has 
visited me with this sickness to teach me what I was 
too proud to learn in health. ' I never had satisfaction 
till now. The doctrines I had been used to referred me 
to myself for the foundation of my hopes, and there I 
could find nothing to rest upon. The sheet-anchor of 
the soul was wanting. I thought you wrong, yet wished 
to believe as you did. I found myself unable to believe, 
yet always thought that I should one day be brought 
to do so. You have suffered more than I have done, 
before you believed these truths ; but our sufferings, 
though different in their kind and measure, were directed 
to the same end. I hope he has taught me that which 
he teaches none but his own. I hope so. These things 
were foolishness to me once, but now I have a firm 
foundation, and am satisfied." 

In the evening, when I went to bid him good night, 
he looked steadfastly in my face, and with great solem- 
nity in his air and manner, taking me by the hand, re- 
sumed the discourse in these very words: "As empty, 
and yet full ; as having nothing, and yet possessing all 
things — I sec the rock upon which I once split, and I 



152 C0WPER ILLUSTRATED. 

see the rock of my salvation. I have peace in myself, 
and if I live, I hope it will be that I may be made a mes- 
senger of peace to others. I have heard that in a 
moment, which I could not have learned by reading 
many books for many years. I have often studied these 
points, and studied them with great attention, but was 
blinded by prejudice; and, unless He, who alone is 
worthy to unloose the seals, had opened the book to me, 
I had been blinded still. Now they appear so plain, 
that though I am convinced no comment could ever have 
made me understand them, I wonder I did not see 
them before. Yet, great as my doubts and difficulties 
were, they have only served to pave the way, and being 
solved, they make it' plainer. The light I have received 
comes late, but it is a comfort to me that I never made 
the gospel-truths a subject of ridicule. Though I dis- 
sented from the persuasion and ways of God's people, I 
ever thought them respectable, and therefore not proper 
to be made a jest of. The evil I suffer is the conse- 
quence of my descent from the corrupt original stock, 
and of my own personal transgressions; the good I 
enjoy comes to me as the overflowing of his bounty; but 
the crown of all his mercies is this, that he has given me 
a Saviour, and not only the Saviour of mankind, brother, 
but my Saviour." 

"I should delight to see the people at Olney, but am 
not worthy to appear amongst them." He wept at 



REV. JOHN COWPER. 153 

speaking these words, and repeated them with emphasis. 
I should rejoice in an hour's conversation with Mr. 
Newton, and, if I live, shall have much discourse with 
him upon these subjects, hut am so weak in body, that 
at present I could not bear it." At the same time he 
gave me to understand, that he had been five years in- 
quiring after the truth, that is, from the time of my first 
visit to him after I left St. Albans, and that from the 
very day of his ordination, which was ten years ago, he 
had been dissatisfied with his own views of the gospel, 
and sensible of their defect and obscurity ; that he had 
always had a sense of the importance of the ministerial 
charge, and had used to consider himself accountable for 
his doctrine no less than his practice ; that he could ap- 
peal to the Lord for his sincerity in all that time, and 
had never wilfully erred, but always been desirous of 
coming to the knowledge of the truth. He added, that 
the moment when he sent forth that cry* was the 
moment when light was darted in his soul ; that he had 
thought much about these things in the course of his 
illness, but never till that instant was able to understand 
them. 

It was remarkable that, from the very instant when 
he was first enlightened, he was also wonderfully 
strengthened in body, so that from the tenth to the four- 

* 10th of March. 
9 



154 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

teenth of March we all entertained hopes of his recovery. 
He was himself very sanguine in his expectations of it, 
but frequently said that his desire of recovery extended 
no farther than his hope of usefulness ; adding, "Unless 
I may live to be an instrument of good to others, it were 
better for me to die now." 

As his assurance was clear and unshaken, so he was 
very sensible of the goodness of the Lord to him in that 
respect. On the day when his eyes were opened, he 
turned to me, and, in a low voice, said, "What a mercy 
it is to a man in my condition, to know his acceptance ! 
I am completely satisfied of mine." On another occa- 
sion, speaking to the same purpose, he said, " This bed 
would be a bed of misery, and it is so — -but it is likewise 
a bed of joy and a bed of discipline. Was I to die this 
night, I know I should be happy. This assurance I 
hope is quite consistent with the word of God. It is 
built upon a sense of my own utter insufficiency and the 
all-sufficiency of Christ." At the same time he said, 
"Brother, I have been building my glory upon a sandy 
foundation ; I have labored night and day to perfect my- 
self in things of no profit ; I have sacrificed my health to 
these pursuits, and am now suffering the consequence of 
my misspent labor. But how contemptible do the 
writers I once highly valued now appear to me ! Yea, 
doubtless, I count all things loss and dung for the ex- 
cellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord." I 



REV. JOHN COWPER. 155 

must now go to a new school. I have many things to 
learn. I succeeded in my former pursuits. I wanted to 
be highly applauded, and I was so. I was flattered up 
to the height of my wishes : now I must learn a new 
lesson." 

On the evening of the thirteenth, he said, "What 
comfort have I in this bed, miserable as I seem to be ! 
Brother, I love to look at you. I see now who was 
right, and who was mistaken. But it seems wonderful 
that such a dispensation should be necessary to enforce 
what seems so very plain. I wish myself at Olney; you 
have a good river there, better than all the rivers of 
Damascus. What a scene is passing before me ! Ideas 
upon these subjects crowd upon me faster than I can 
give them utterance. How plain do many texts appear, 
to which, after consulting all the commentators, I could 
hardly affix a meaning ; and now I have their true mean- 
ing without any comment at all. There is but one key 
to the New Testament ; there is but one interpreter. I 
cannot describe to you, nor shall ever be able to de- 
scribe, what I felt in the moment it was given to me, 
May I make good use of it ! How I shudder when I 
think of the danger I have just escaped! I had made 
up my mind upon these subjects, and was determined to 
hazard all upon the justness of my own opinions.' , 

Speaking of his illness, he said, he had been followed 
night and day from the very beginning of it with this 



156 COW PEE ILLUSTRATED. 

text ; I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the 
Lord. This notice was fulfilled to him, though not in 
such a sense as my desires of his recovery prompted me 
to put upon it. His remarkable amendment soon ap- 
peared to be no more than a present supply of strength 
and spirit, that he might be able to speak of the better 
life which God had given him, which was no sooner done 
than he relapsed as suddenly as he had revived. About 
this time he formed a purpose of receiving the sacra- 
ment, induced to it principally by a desire of setting his 
seal to the truth, in presence of those who were strangers 
to the change which had taken place in his sentiments. 
It must have been administered to him by the Master of 
the College, to w^hom he designed to have made this 
short declaration, "If I die, I die in the belief of the doc- 
trines of the Reformation, and of the Church of England, 
as it w T as at the time of the Reformation." But, his 
strength declining apace, and his pains becoming more 
severe, he could never find a proper opportunity of doing 
it. His experience was rather peace than joy, if a dis- 
tinction may be made between joy and that heartfelt 
peace which he often spoke of in the most comfortable 
terms ; and which he expressed by a heavenly smile upon 
his countenance under the bitterest bodily distress. His 
words upon this subject once were these, "How won- 
derful is it that God should look upon man, especially 
that he should look upon me ! Yet he sees me, and 



REV. JOHN COW PEE. 157 

takes notice of all that I suffer. I see him too ; he is 
present before me, and I hear him say, " Come unto me, 
all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give 
you rest." (Matt. xi. 23.) 

On the fourteenth, in the afternoon, I perceived that 
the strength and spirits which had been afforded him 
were suddenly withdrawn, so that by the next day his 
mind became weak, and his speech roving and faltering. 
But still, at intervals he was enabled to speak of divine 
tilings with great force and clearness. On the evening 
of the fifteenth, he said, " There is more joy in heaven 
over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine 
just persons who need no repentance. That text has 
been sadly misunderstood by me as well as by others. 
"Where is that just person to be found ? Alas ! what 
must have become of me, if I had died this day, 
se'nnight ? What should I have had to plead ? My 
own righteousness ! That would have been of great 
service tome, to be sure ! Well, whither next? Why, 
to the mountains to fall upon us, and to the hills to cover 
us. I am not duly thankful for the mercy I have re- 
ceived. Perhaps I may ascribe some part of my insensi- 
bility to my great weakness of body. I hope at least 
that if I was better in health, it would be better with me 
in these respects also." 

The next day, perceiving that his understanding began 
to suffer by the extreme weakness of his body, he said, 



158 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

" I have been vain of my understanding and of my ac- 
quirements in this place ; and now God has made me 
little better than an idiot, as much as to say, Now be 
proud if you can ! Well, while I have any senses left, 
my thoughts will be poured out in the praise of God. I 
have an interest in Christ, in his blood and sufferings, 
and my sins are forgiven me. Have I not cause to praise 
him ? When my understanding fails me quite, as I 
think it will soon, then he will pity my weakness." 

Though the Lord intended that his warfare should be 
short, yet a warfare he was to have, and to be exposed to 
a measure of conflict with his owm corruptions. 

His pain being extreme, his powers of recollection 
much impaired, and the Comforter withholding for a 
season his sensible support, he was betrayed into a fret- 
fulness and impatience of spirit which had never been 
permitted to show itself before. This appearance 
alarmed me, and, having an opportunity afforded me by 
everybody's absence, I said to him, "You were happier 
last Saturday than you are to-day. Are you entirely 
destitute of the consolations you then spoke of? And 
do you not sometimes feel comfort flowing into your 
heart from a sense of your acceptance with God ?" He 
replied, " Sometimes I do, but sometimes I am left to 
desperation." The same day in the evening, he said, 
"Brother, I believe you are often uneasy, lest w T hat 
lately passed should come to nothing." I replied by 



REV. JOHN COW PER. 159 

asking him, whether, when he found his patience and his 
temper fail, he endeavored to pray for power against his 
corruptions? He answered, "Yes, a thousand times in a 
day. But I see myself odiously vile and wicked. If I 
die in this illness, I beg you will place no other inscrip- 
tion over me than such as may just mention my name 
and the parish where I was minister ; for that I ever had 
a being, and what sort of a being I had, cannot be too 
soon forgotten. I was just beginning to be a deist, and 
had long desired to be so ; and I will own to you w T hat I 
never confessed before, that my function and the duties 
of it were a weariness to me which I could not bear. 
Yet, wretched creature and beast as I was, I was 
esteemed religious, though I lived without God in the 
world." About this time, I reminded him of the account 
of Janeway, which he once read at my desire. He said 
he had laughed at it in his own mind, and accounted it 
mere madness and folly. " Yet base as I am," said he, 
"I have no doubt now but God has accepted me also, 
and forgiven me all my sins." 

I then asked him w T hat he thought of my narrative ?* 
He replied, " I thought it strange, and ascribed much of 
it to the state in which you had been. When I came to 
visit you in London, and found you in that deep distress, 
I would have given the universe to have administered 

* Cowper's Memoir of Himself. 



160 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

some comfort to you. You may remember that I tried 
every method of doing it. "When I found that all my 
attempts were vain, I was shocked to the greatest degree. 
I began to consider your sufferings as a judgment upon 
you ; and my inability to alleviate them, as a judgment 
upon myself. When Mr. M.* came, he succeeded in a 
moment. This surprised me ; but it does not surprise 
me now. He had the key to your heart, which I had 
not. That which filled me with disgust against my 
office as a minister, was the same ill success which at- 
tended me in my own parish. There I endeavored to 
soothe the afflicted, and to reform the unruly by warn- 
ing and reproof; but all that I could say in either case, 
was spoken to the wind, and attended with no effect." 

There is that in the nature of salvation by grace, when 
it is truly and experimentally known, which prompts 
every person to think himself the most extraordinary 
instance of its power. Accordingly, my brother insisted 
upon the precedence in this respect; and upon com- 
paring his case with mine, Would by no means allow my 
deliverance to have been so wonderful as his own. He 
observed that, from the beginning, both his manner of 
life and his connections had been such as had a natural 
tendency to blind his eyes, and to confirm and rivet his 
prejudices against the truth. Blameless in his outward 

* The Rev. Martin Madan. 



REV. JOHN COWPER, 161 

conduct, and having no open immorality to charge him- 
self with, his acquaintance had been with men of the 
same stamp, who trusted in themselves that they were 
righteous, and despised the doctrine of the cross. Such 
were all who, from his earliest days, he had been used 
to propose to himself as patterns for his imitation. Not 
to go farther back, such was the clergyman under whom 
he received the first rudiments of his education ; such 
was the schoolmaster, under whose instruction he was 
prepared for the university ; and such were all the most 
admired characters, with whom he was most ambitious 
of being connected. He lamented the dark and Christ- 
less condition of the place, where learning and morality 
were all in all, and where, if a man were possessed of 
these qualifications, he neither doubted himself, nor did 
anybody else question the safety of his state. He con- 
cluded, therefore, that to show the fallacy of such ap- 
pearances, and to root out the prejudices which long 
familiarity with them had fastened upon his mind, re- 
quired a more than ordinary exertion of divine power, 
and that the grace of God was more clearly manifested 
in such a work than in the conversion of one like me, 
who had no outside righteousness to boast of, and who, 
if I was ignorant of the truth, was not, however, so 
desperately prejudiced against it. 

His thoughts, I suppose, had been led to this subject, 
when, one afternoon, while I was writing by the fire- 



162 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

side, he thus addressed himself to the nurse, who sat at 
his holster : " Nurse, I have lived three-and-thirty years, 
and I will tell you how I have spent them. When I was 
a hoy, they taught me Latin ; and because I was the son 
of a gentleman, they taught me Greek. These I learned 
under a sort of private tutor ; at the age of fourteen, or 
thereabouts, they sent me to a public school, where I 
learned more Latin and Greek, and, last of all, to this 
place, where I have been learning more Latin and Greek 
still. Now has not this been a blessed life, and much 
to the glory of God?" Then directing his speech to me, 
he said, " Brother, I was going to say I was born in such 
a year; but I correct myself. I would rather say, in 
such a year I came into the world. You know when I 
was born." 

As long as he expected to recover, the souls committed 
to his care were much upon his mind. One day, when 
none was present but myself, he prayed thus : " Lord, 
thou art good ; goodness is thy very essence, and thou 
art the fountain of wisdom. I am a poor worm, weak 
and foolish as a child. Thou hast intrusted many souls 
unto me ; and I have not been able to teach them, be- 
cause I knew thee not myself. Grant me ability, O 
Lord, for I can do nothing without thee, and give me 
grace to be faithful." 

In a time of severe and continual pain, he smiled in 
my face, and said, "Brother, I am as happy as a king." 



REV. JOHN COWPER. 163 

And the day before he died, when I asked him what 
sort of a night he had had, he replied, " A sad night, 
not a wink of sleep." I said, " Perhaps, though, your 
mind has been composed, and you have been enabled to 
pray?" "Yes," said he, "I have endeavored to spend 
the hours in the thoughts of God and prayer ; I have 
been much comforted, and all the comfort I got came to 
me in this way." 

The next morning I was called up to be witness of his 
last moments. I found him in a deep sleep, lying per- 
fectly still, and seemingly free from pain. I stayed with 
him till they pressed me to quit his room, and in about 
five minutes after I had left him he died ; sooner, indeed, 
than I expected, though for some days there had been 
no hopes of his recovery. His death at that time was 
rather extraordinary ; at least I thought it so ; for, when 
I took leave of him the night before, he did not seem 
worse or weaker than he had been, and, for aught that 
appeared, might have lasted many days ; but the Lord, 
in whose sight the death of his saints is precious, cut 
short his sufferings, and gave him a speedy and peaceful 
departure. 

He died at seven in the morning, on the 20th of 
March, 1770. 

Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 



164 COWPER ILLUSTRATED. 

From Thee departing, they are lost and rove 
At random, without honor, hope, or peace. 
From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, 
His high endeavor and his glad success, 
His strength to suffer and his will to serve. 
But oh! Thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown. 
Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor, 
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. 



The fraternal love and piety of Cowper are beautifully 
illustrated in this most interesting document. No 
sooner had he experienced the value of religion, and its 
inward peace and hope, in his own heart, than he feels 
solicitous to communicate the blessing to others. True 
piety is always diffusive. It does not, like the sordid 
miser, hoard up the treasure for self-enjoyment, but is 
enriched by giving, and impoverished only by with- 
holding. 

Friends, parents, kindred, first it will embrace, 
Our country next, and next all human race. 

The prejudices of his brother, and yet his mild and 
amiable spirit of forbearance ; the zeal of Cowper, and 



REV. JOHN COW PER. 165 

its final happy result, impart to this narrative a singular 
degree of interest. Others would have been deterred by 
apparent difficulties ; but true zeal is full of faith, as well 
as of love, and does not contemplate man's resistance, 
but God's mighty power. 

The example of John Cowper furnishes also a re- 
markable evidence that a man may be distinguished by 
the highest endowments of human learning, and yet be 
ignorant of that knowledge which is emphatically called 
life eternal. 

The distinction between the knowledge that is derived 
from books, and the wisdom that cometh from above, is 
drawn by Cowper with a happy and just discrimination. 

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, 
Have ofttimes no connection — knowledge dwells 
In heads replete with thoughts of other men; 
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass, 
The mere materials with which wisdom builds, 
Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place, 
Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. 
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much ; 
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 

It is important to know how far the powers of human 
reason extend in matters of religion, and where they 
fail. Reason can examine the claims of divine revelation, 



166 COW PER ILLUSTRATED. 

and determine its authority by the most conclusive argu- 
ments. It can expose error, and establish the truth; 
attack infidelity without its own entrenchments, and 
carry its victorious arms into the very camp of the enemy. 
It can defend all the outworks of religion, and vindicate 
its insulted majesty. But at this point its powers begin 
to fail. It cannot confer a spiritual apprehension of the 
truth in the understanding, nor a spiritual reception of 
it in the heart This is the province of grace. "No 
man knoweth the things of God, but the Spirit of God, 
and he to whom the Spirit hathrevealed them." "Not by 
might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saiththe Lord." 
Men of learning endeavor to attain to the knowledge 
of divine things, in the, same manner as they acquire an 
insight into human things, that is, by human power and 
human teaching. "All thy children shall be taught of 
God." Not that human reason is superseded in its use. 
Man is always a rational and moral agent. But it is 
reason, conscious of its own weakness, simple in its 
views, and humble in its spirit, enlightened, guided and 
regulated in all its researches by the grace and wisdom 
that is from above. 

John Cowper expresses the substance of this idea in 
the following emphatic words : "I have learned that in 
a moment, which I could not have learned by reading 
many books for many years. I have often studied these 



REV. JOHN COWPER. 167 

points, and studied them with great attention, but was 
blinded by prejudice; and unless He, who alone is 
worthy to unloose the seals, had opened the book to me, 
I had been blinded still." 



THE END. 



